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Book— -/-^f£i$— 

By bequest of 

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phe 



WORKS 



ROBERT TANNAHILL. 



WITH LIFE OF THE AUTHOR, 



AND A MEMOIR OP ROBERT A. SMITH, 

THE MUSICAL COMPOSER, 



BY PHILIP A. RAMSAY. 



LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND DUBLIN: 
A. FULLARTON AND CO. 

1853. 






Gift. 

W. L. Shoemaker 

7 S '06 



EDINBURGH 

PULLARTON AND MACNAB, PRINTERS, LEITH WAJ.K, 



TANNAHILL'S DISTINGUISHED TOWNSMAN, 

JOHN WILSON, ESQ., 

PROFESSOR OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY IN THE 

UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH, 

THE PRESENT EDITION 

IS 

(BY PERMISSION, 

RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. 



PREFACE. 



The late William Motherwell had it in view to pre- 
pare a new Edition of the Poems and Songs of 
Tannahill, with an original Memoir of the Author; 
but his sudden death, just as he was about to address 
himself to the task, frustrated that intention. The 
present Editor, who long enjoyed Mr Motherwell's 
friendship, having had the use of all the papers collect- 
ed by him for that purpose, and having procured 
many additional materials, now ventures to lay before 
the public a Work, which, he is deeply persuaded, 
would have been much more worthily edited by his 
lamented friend. Nevertheless, he may claim for this 
Edition the merit of being the most complete, and 
the most accurate, which has yet appeared. Some 
of the pieces which it contains are now printed for 
the first time ; others have only had an occasional and 
limited circulation ; and a third class has been restored 
from the first Edition. The whole have been carefully 
collated, either with the prior Editions, or with the 
other sources from which they were derived. 

On the Memoir of the Author, much pains have 
been bestowed. Besides his Letters, it will be found 
to disclose many interesting particulars respecting his 
life and character, hitherto not generally known. 

The Memoir of Smith will, it is hoped, be regard- 
ed as an appropriate portion of the volume. No 



VI PREFACE. 



biographical notice of him has till now appeared, 
save those — necessarily imperfect and unsatisfactory— 
which were inserted in the fleeting columns of the 
newspapers at the time of his death. Such a tribute 
as is here offered is surely due to his memory. He 
was the familiar friend of Tannahiil, and first became 
known to the world by the exquisite music which he 
composed or arranged for his songs. The names of 
the Musician and the Poet are, in the minds of their 
admirers — especially in the West of Scotland — indis- 
solubly connected. 

To many of the pieces the Editor has appended 
Notes, critical and illustrative. He has also compiled 
a Glossary, which will be found useful by those readers 
who are not acquainted with the Scottish dialect. 

The Portrait of Tannahiil has been engraved, ex- 
pressly for this Edition, from a drawing which was 
taken by one of his acquaintances — Mr John Mor- 
ton — the day after his death, and which has now 
undergone some slight alterations that were suggest- 
ed by his friends, for the purpose of more closely 
bringing out the resemblance. No likeness was taken 
during his life. 

The Vignette has been engraved from a painting 
made by Mr John C. Brown, of Glasgow, for this 
Edition. It represents scenery immortalized by the 
Bard, namely, ' the Braes o' Gleniffer,' the ruins of 
Stanley Castle, f the birks o' Stanley Shaw,' the low- 
lands of Renfrewshire, and, in the distance, ' the lofty 
Ben Lomond.' 



Edinburgh, \ 
February, 1838. ) 



PREFACE. Vll. 

number of the Scots words had been altered to and 
printed in English. 

In former editions the indices were either given in the 
order of paging or by a mixture of titles and first lines. 
To obviate the difficulty of discovering any given piece I 
have framed an alphabetical index of first lines, not only 
of this edition, but of all former editions. This has the 
advantage of shewing the several pieces which have been 
printed in each edition, and also the page where each 
piece has occurred in the various editions. 

Having obtained valuable information, and discovered 
important facts concerning the Poet and his family from 
reliable sources and authentic documents, I have writ- 
ten the full and complete events of his life as they 
occurred in strict chronological order. These facts have 
justified me in placing the Bard in the elevated position 
which he ought always to have occupied. 

The poems and songs have been numbered and col- 
lected into kindred groups. The Scots words being 
softer and more phonetically written than the English, 
the pronounciation and the sense of the subject will 
assist an English reader in understanding them with- 
out referring to the Glossary. A few of the titles of the 
ongs have been altered. 

Several missing stanzas, unpublished and unedited 
.eces have been discovered, and will be found at the 
nd of the songs. 

Having been successful in recovering a large number 



Vlll. PREFACE. 

of Tannahill's letters, I considered it better that they 
should form a special department along with the 
extracts from correspondence published by former 
Editors. The whole are placed in chronological order. 
This new and important feature will, I trust, recommend 
itself to the admirers of the Bard. 

Brief sketches of the Drawer of Tannahill's likeness 
and former Editors of his works will be found in the Ap- 
pendix, and also accounts of the institution of the 
Tannahill Club in 1858, the Erection of a Monu- 
mental Tombstone in 1867, the Fixing of a Tablet of his 
Birth in 1872, and the proceedings at the Centenary in 
1874. A complete Glossary of Scots Words is appended. 

A copious Index is given at the end of the volume, 
enabling readers at once to put their finger upon any 
particular place in the volume. 

I have now specially to refer to the note to the song 
" Thro Cruikston Castle's lanely wa's," page 233, giving 
the descent of His Royal Highness Prince Leopold from 
the heroine of the song, the beautiful Marie Queen of 
Scots. On the occasion of His Royal Highness visiting 
Paisley, when the guest of Colonel Campbell of Blyths- 
wood, I sent two copies of the page containing the 
note to the gallant Colonel, who wrote me on 30I 
September, 187 5-, as follows: — " His Royal Highn 
Prince Leopold, desires me to say that he was born c 
the 7th, not the 14th April, as in your printed extract. 
I have now most cordially to tender my best thanks i 



CONTENTS. 






Page 


Dedication 


iii 


Prefatory Notice . ..... 


V 


Memoir of Tannahill ..... 


xiii 


Memoir of Smith ...... 


• xliii 


Verses by Smith 


lxvii 


PART FIRST— SONGS. 




Jessie, the Flow'r o' Dumblane .... 


. 8 


Loudoun's bonny Woods and Braes ... 


5 


The Lass o* Arranteenie . . . • 


7 


The Braes o' Gleniffer ..... 


8 


The Flower of Levern-side ..... 


. 9 


Langsyne, beside the woodland Burn 


10 


Yon Burn-side ....... 


. 11 


Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa's 


12 


I'll hie me to the Shieling-hill .... 


. 14 


The Braes o' Balquhither ..... 


15 


Lassie, will ye tak' a man 


. 16 


An Anacreontic . 




Our bonny Scotch Lads . ... 


. 17 


Och hey ! Johnnie, Lad ..... 


18 


Companion of my youthful Sports .... 


. 19 


Fly we to some desert Isle ..... 


20 


O sair I rue the witless Wish ..... 


. 21 


Kitty Tyrrell . .... 




Ellen More 


. 23 



CONTENTS. 



Dirge on Burns' Funeral . 

Coggie, thou heals me 

Green Inismore 

The worn Soldier . . • 

From the rude bustling Camp . 

The Soldier's Widow . . . 

The wandering Bard . • 

The dear Highland Laddie, O 

Poor Tom, fare thee well • 

Despairing Mary 

Fragment of a Scottish Ballad . 

Now Winter, wi' his cloudy Brow 

Gloomy Winter's now awa 

While the grey pinion'd Lark 

When John and I were married 

Mine ain dear Somebody 

The Midges dance aboon the Burn 

Why unite to banish Care 

Rab Roryson's Bonnet 

Barrochan Jean .... 

Ah ! Sheelah, thou'rt my Darling 

Molly, my Dear .... 

One night in my Youth . 

Ye friendly Stars that rule the Night 

Peggy o' Rafferty . 

The Irish Farmer 

Adieu ! ye cheerful native Plains 

The Dirge of Carolan . 

O are ye sleeping, Maggie 

O row thee in my Highland Plaid 

The Highlander's Invitation 

My Mary .... 

Responsive, ye Woods 

The Defeat 

The Lament of Wallace . 

My heart is sair wi' heavy Care 

Though humble my Lot . 

Ye dear romantic Shades 



CONTENTS. 



Thou bonny wood of Craigie-lea 

Bonny winsome Mary . 

The Farewell .... 

With w r aefu' Heart and sorrowing E'e 

The Maniac's Song 

Ye Echoes that ring 

When Rosie was faithful 

The Negro Girl . 

The Bacchanalians 

The Kebbuckston Wedding 

I mark'd a gem of pearly Dew 

The Bard of Glen-ullin 

The Coggie . 

The Five Friends 

Ye wooer Lads wha greet an' grane 

And were ye at Duntocher-burn . 

The Soldier's Funeral 

Margery Miller .... 

All hail, ye dear romantic Shades 

Now Winter is gane (second stanza) 



FRAGMENTS. 



Hey Donald ! how Donald ! 

Meg o' the Glen 

The Lassie o' merry Eighteen 

Come hame to your Lingels 

Brave Lewie Roy 

O how can you gang, Lassie 

I'll lay me on the wintry lea 

Faithless Nannie 

Davie Tulloch's bonnre Katie 

The Banks of Spey 

The Lasses a' leugh 

O Laddie, can ye leave me . 

Away, gloomy Care 

Thou cauld gloomy Feberwar 

Now, Marion, dry your tearfu' E'e 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
Kitty O' Carrol . . ..... 96 

My Days ha'e flown wi' gleesome Speed ... 96 

O weep not, my Love ....... 97 



Sing on, thou sweet Warbler ..... 

The poor Man's Lament for the death of his Cow 
Awake, my Harp, the cheerful Strain .... 

The Soldier's Adieu ...... 

Lone in yon dark sequester'd Grove . 

PART SECOND—MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 



Epistle to James King 

■ to James Barr . 

to James Scadlock 

to William Thomson 

to William Wylie 

to Alexander Borland 

to James Buchanan 

to Robert Allan 

Towser .... 

Baudrons and the Hen-bird 

The Ambitious Mite 

The Storm 

The Resolve .... 

The Parnassiad 

Connel and Flora . 

The Cock-pit 

Prologue to " The Gentle Shepherd" 

The Contrast 

Ode to Jealousy 

The Trifler's Sabbath-day . 

Ode in imitation of Peter Pindar 

The Portrait of Guilt 

The Hauntet Wud 

Ode for Burns' Birth-day, 1805 

1807 

1810 



Will MacNeil's Elegy . 
Prayer under Affliction 



97 
97 

98 
98 
98 



103 
105 
109 
111 
112 
114 
118 
122 
126 
129 
130 
132 
133 
136 
140 
143 
145 
146 
147 
148 
149 
150 
151 
153 
156 
159 
162 
166 



CONTENTS. XI 



The Filial Vow 167 

Eild 168 

Stanzas written on the Grave-stone of a departed Friend . 168 
On Alexander Wilson's Emigration to America . .169 

The poor Bowlman's Remonstrance . . . . 171 

Sonnet to Sincerity . . . . . . .172 

Lines written on reading " The Pleasures of Hope " . 1 72 
Lines written on seeing a Spider dart out upon a Fly . .173 
Lines on seeing a Fop pass an old Beggar . .173 

Parody on " Lullaby" 174 

Lines on a Flatterer ...... 1 74 

A Resolve, written on hearing a fellow tell some stories 

to the hurt of his best Friends . . . .175 

Lines written with a Pencil in a Tap-room . . .175 
A Lesson ..••••. . .175 

Epigrams . . . r/g 

Epitaphs . • .177 

Glossary . • . . • .. # ,179 




<^-<%~*Ut& 



A.Fiillartcm 8c C° Ion don &■ E^inlp-urtf] 



MAP OF THE LAND OF TANNAHILL, 



GUIDE TO GLENIFFER "BRAES. 



i 



The foregoing map, embracing portions of Renfrewshire and Ayrshire, was 
prepared for the benefit of visitors visiting the Land of Tannahill and 
the classic Braes of Gleniffer. These braes were the ancient forest of Pais- 
ley — the hunting ground of the Stewarts, Barons of the Barony of Renfrew, 
afterwards called Paisley Braes, and now, in one of the sweetest songs of the 
lyric poet, ''The Braes o Gleniffer." 

The map extends east and west a length of L7 miles — from " Cruikston 
Castle's lanely wa's " in the Abbey Parish of Paisley, to the lands of Boghall 
in the Parish of Beith, which formerly belonged to the poet's grandfather, 
and the scene of the song, "Oh! are ye sleepin, Maggie," and south and 
north a breadth of 8 miles, from Neilston to Kilbarchan, two villages where 
the poet had kind and blythe friends whom he often visited. 

Visitors, on arriving at the Cross or Market Place of Paisley, should 
proceed down Saint Mirin Street and up to the head of Causeyside where 
the road divides, — the one to the left, marked on the map No. 1, in ancient 
times leading to the furyness (Fereneze), and the other to the right, marked 
No. 2, leading to the louclilybosycle (Loch Libo side). 

I. They may take the Neilston Road on the left, marked No. 1, passing 
through Neilston Street, Lylesland, Dovesland, Carriagehill, Colinslie, 
Potterhill, and Thornley, turning to the right, into the Glen Road, marked 
No. 6, and they will soon arrive at Glenfield, belonging to William Fulton, 
Esq. of Glen, — one of the loveliest spots a person can visit. A picturesque 
path leads to the Well, — which the late Mr. Fulton named " Tannahill 
Well," after the Poet, — the cascade of Craigie Linn, and the Braes, on the 
elevated summit of which a magnificent panoramic view of the country, 
embracing seven counties, will be obtained. This is where the great 
demonstration proceedings were held on the Poet's Centennial Birth-Day 
celebration. Proceeding westward along the road, No. 6, skirting the Braes 
of Gleniffer, they will enter the Corsebar Road, marked No. 3, at Nether- 
craigs, opposite the Stanely Road. 

II. Or they may take the Calside Road, marked No. 2, at the head of 
Causeyside, through Calside Street, past Fairhill, until the division of the 
road, — the road to the left being a continuation of road No. 2, and the 
East Corsebar Road to the right, marked No. 3. They may either 
continue along No. 2, passing the Brodie Public Park and Blackland Mill, 
where the road divides again, — the one to the left, Braehead Road, being 
still a continuation of No. 2 (which crosses No. 6), thence to Braehead, — or 
take the West Blackla/ad Road to the right, marked No. 4, which merges 
in No. 3 at the Corsebar Toll. 

III. Or they may take the East Corsebar Road on the right, marked No. 3, 
which is better ; through that road, passing Corsebar Curling Pond and the 
Paisley Water Works direct to the Glen of Gleniffer, which they will see 
marked on the map. This road, passing " the bonnie wee well on the 
breist o the brae," leads to the Peesweep Inn, and goes round by the 
Craigenfeoch Road to the Thorn, marked No. 11, famed for its varying 
scenery. 

IV. Or they may proceed from the Cross along High Street to Broomlands 
Street, down Maxwelton Street to Maxwelton Road, turn to the left into 
West Corsebar Road, marked No. 5, passing the Burgh Asylum, till it merges 
in No. 3, near the Corsebar Toll. 

V. Or they may take the Brediland Road, marked No. 7, leading off 
Maxwelton Road across " Tannahill Bridge," passing Loundsdale, into 
Leitchland Roads, marked Nos. 8 and 9, merging in the Alt Patrick Road, 
No. 10. 

VI. Or they may take the Fidbar or Chain Road, marked No. 9, leading off 
the Beith road at the west end of Millarston, which merges in No. 10 at 
Low Bardrain. 

VII. Or they may take the Alt Patrick Road, marked No. 10, leading off 



i*m 



<2 



GUIDE. 

the Berth road at ScJ~~ s > near Elderslie. This road leads to the " Duiky 
Glen" and " Glenf<- Jl >" an( * the other scenery of Alt Patrick Burn, — the 
scene of the "<Mdier's Return." The road passes Foxbar and Stanely 
Castle "wi \\* auld turrets" by the Stanely Road, also marked No, 10, 
merging jrNo. 3 opposite the westend of the Glen Road, No. 6. 

VIII Or they may take the Craigenfeoch Road, marked No. 11, leading off 
the Seith road near Thorn, past Craigenfeoch and Craigmuir, merging in 
Sfti. 3 at the Peesweep Inn. Craigenfeoch,— Gaelic, The Rock of the Raven, — 
from which a splendid view of Strathgryffe is obtained. 

" Glenkilloch " will be found on the south side of the Map among Fereneze 
Braes. " Fairy Woodside," "Sweet Ferguslie," and "Bonnie Wood o 
Craigielee," nestling on the north-west side of Paisley ; and " Calderglen/ 
" Balgreen " ("■ The Echoes o Bowgreen "), and " Langcraft" (which belonged 
to the Poet's granduncle), will be seen in the far west above Lochwinnoch, 
and " Overton Braes," near Beith, where "Dear Will" resided. 



T LMJ E 

ip © e j a c a i w © ir ^ § 

OF 




A. Pull i i 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 



The surname of Tannahill is local, being chiefly confin- 
ed to the counties of Ayr, Renfrew, and Lanark. Even 
there it is of rare occurrence. Yet it has some pretensions 
to antiquity. Thus in the borough records of Glasgow, an 
"Alexander Tannochill" is mentioned, as one of three 
persons to whom a sum of money was paid " for keiping 
of the stepill" in the year 1578.* And in a deed of in- 
vestiture in some lands in Ayrshire, in favour of Sir 
William Mure of Rowallan, dated in 1620, there appears 
as a witness "Robert Tonnochhill in Monkland."f More- 
over, in the borough records of Paisley we find this en- 
try: — " 25th December, 1648. Quhilk day it is appointed 
that the schoole sail be visited betwixt and Candlemeis 
nixt, and the abilitie of Johne Tannahill tryed, and if he 
be not fund able to be doctor and teache ane musick 
schoole, that another be provydit for." In the public 
records, too, we have observed mention made of a place 
called " Tannockhill," under the date 1662.J Apparently, 

* Borough Records of Glasgow from 1573 to 1581, printed 
1832 — a contribution to the Maitland Club by John Smith, 
Youngest, Esq. 

f Protocol of Robert Brown, Notary-public, from 1616 to 
1620, in the hands of James Dobie, Esq., Beith. 

\ Oct. 7th, 1662, Retour of the Service of James Reid in 
Tannockhill, as heir of his father, in the lands of Dalquhrain : 

b 



XIV MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 

all these names are identical, and are mere enlargements of 
Tannock, which boasts a still higher antiquity. For so far 
back as 1367-8, a safe conduct was granted by Edward the 
Third, for several Scotch merchants to pass through England 
on business, and among the names is " Adam Tunnock," 
who is allowed to travel with one servant and two horses.* 
Near our own day, " auld Nanse Tannock," Burns' hostess 
at Mauchline, will occur to the reader. And at page 120 
of this volume, an artist who bears that surname, is honour- 
ably noticed. — But enough of these researches. 

About the middle of the last century, when Paisley was 
rising into importance by its manufactures, four brothers 
named Tannahill, natives of Kilmarnock, settled in the 
former place as weavers of silk gauze. By and by, arid 
before the breaking out of the war with the American 
colonies, the two youngest emigrated to the State of New 
York, where, and in the adjacent countries, many of their 
descendants are to be found. The other two remained in 
Paisley. In 1762 James, the oldest brother, was married 
to Janet Pollock, daughter of Matthew Pollock of Bog- 
tia.ll, near Beith, in Ayrshire, one of the numerous small 
proprietors, or bonnet-lairds, who cultivate their own 
ground in that district. They had a family of six sons 
and one daughter. Our author, Robert Tannahill, was 
their fourth child, and was born in Paisley on the 3d of 
June, 1774. Both parents were much respected for their 
intelligence and worth : the mother, in particular, was pos- 
sessed of great natural talent, and was remarkable, in her 
humble sphere, for the extent of her information. A 
considerable portion of her early life was passed under 
the roof of her uncle, Hugh Brodie of Langcraft, a neigh- 
bouring laird, who enjoyed a provincial celebrity as a 
rhymer, and one of whose effusions — " a Speech in verse 

Vol. I. of Abbreviates of Retours, printed in 1811 by the Royal 
command ; voce, Special Retours for Ayrshire. 
* Rotuli Scotiae, p. 919. 



MEMOIR OF TAOTAHILL. XV 

upon Husbandry" — appears in Semple's Continuation of 
Crawfurd's History of Renfrewshire, p. 116. 

As with the generality of people of his rank, the poet's 
education was limited to reading, writing, and accounts. 
At an early age he was sent to the loom, — then a profit- 
able calling, — at which he distinguished himself by his 
industry. But he did not neglect the cultivation of his 
mind. By reading and study, he strove to atone for his 
defective education, — with what success is apparent, not 
only from his compositions in verse, but also from his 
prose correspondence, now for the first time published. 

He very soon began to write verses ; and although he 
did not literally " lisp in numbers," his surviving com- 
panions still dwell with pleasure on the rhymes with 
which, while yet a boy, he was wont to amuse them. As 
he grew up, he became known among his townsmen for 
this gift, and was at length induced to become an occa- 
sional contributor to some of the Glasgow newspapers. 
The first of his productions which appeared in print, was 
an immature set of verses, in praise of one of his favourite 
haunts, — Ferguslie wood. These his better taste rejected 
when he came to publish. 

He was possessed of a correct musical ear, and played 
well on the German flute. His favourite pursuit was to 
recover old or neglected airs, and unite them to appro- 
priate words. The airs he hummed over while plying 
the shuttle, and as the words arose in his mind, he jotted 
them down at a rude desk which he had attached to his 
loom, and which he could use without rising from his 
seat. Thus did he contrive to relieve the monotonous 
dulness of his daily occupation, by combining with it the 
exercise of his more gentle craft, — weaving threads and 
verses alternately.* 

* Shakspeare makes Falstaff exclaim : " I would I were a 
weaver ; I could sing all manner of songs ;" in commenting on 
which, Dr Johnson, with obvious truth, says: "I believe nothing 

62 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 



During a considerable portion of Tannahill's early life, 
there resided in Paisley, following the same vocation, an 
individual who was destined to establish for himself a much 
wider reputation than his less enterprising townsman. 
This was Alexander Wilson, the Ornithologist of America. 
It has often occurred to us, as an interesting subject for 
inquiry, whether these kindred spirits were personally 
acquainted. Circumstances, and the information which we 
have procured, lead to the conclusion that they were not. 
At the time of Wilson's emigration, Tannahill was only 
twenty years of age, and indeed, "a youth to fame un- 
known," while Wilson was eight years older, and had ac> 
quired considerable celebrity by his poetical productions. 
Retiring and unobtrusive, it is improbable that our 
bard would seek the acquaintance of his fervid townsman ; 
and the lines which he wrote on Wilson's emigration to 
America, some years after that event, contain no expres- 
sions indicative of personal attachment, but breathe only 
regret at his departure, and sympathy with his adverse 
fate. 

The days of Tannahill passed away till his six-and-twen- 
tieth year, without any change in his circumstances. He 
had no desire to raise himself in the world, but contentedly 
remained at the loom. To this period of his life is to be 
referred the only love passage in which he was engaged. 
A glowing and exaggerated account of it has been given 
in a little biographical sketch, of very limited circulation, 
published anonymously by one of his friends not long 
after his death.* At first his addresses were received with 
a favourable ear. Ere long, however, the object of his 
affections betrayed an inclination to follow the example of 
" the fair Imogene," and like her to 



more is here meant than to allude to the practice of weavers, 
who, having their hands more employed than their minds, amuse 
themselves frequently with songs at the loom." 

* Paisley, John Neilson, 1815. 18mo. pp. 40. 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. XV11 



1 bestow 



On a wealthier suitor her hand." 

" The pride of the bard," we are told, " was stung, and 
spoke in loud and angry reproach. The fair began to 
relent, but it was too late. The vulture, Jealousy, had 
fixed her talons so firmly in the injured lover's heart, that 
promises were vain, and repentance useless." In the 
elegant verses beginning with 

" Accuse me not, inconstant fair, 
Of being false to thee," 

he bade the fickle one farewell, and he remained a bachelor 
for life. 

In the year 1800, actuated by a desire to see something 
of the world, and in accordance with a practice not then 
uncommon amongst their townsmen, Tannahill, and one 
of his younger brothers, (Hugh,) removed to Lancashire. 
Hugh found suitable employment at Preston, while Robert 
went forward to Bolton, where he fixed his abode. The 
brothers, who were warmly attached to each other, often 
met during their sojourn in that country, and kept up a con- 
stant correspondence with their parents. One would have 
thought, that, on the rich and varied scenery of merry 
England, our poet, whose forte lay in delineating the 
beauties of nature, would have been delighted to expatiate. 
But it is remarkable that in none of his productions, save 
two of a satirical nature, one of which we have reprinted,* 
is there to be found the slightest allusion to the country, 
or to the manners of the people amongst whom he dwelt. 
There, however, he was known as a poet, and his songs 
were listened to with applause. After remaining in 
England for two years, the brothers received intelligence 

* "A Les9on," p. 175. The other lines alluded to, which 
appeared in the first edition only, are " On a country Justice in 
the South." 

£3 



XV111 MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 

that the health of their father was rapidly declining, and 
that, like the patriarch of old, he was desirous to have all 
his children around him ere he died. They hurried home, 
and arrived in time to receive his dying blessing. 

Soon after his return to Paisley, we find Tannahill thus 
expressing himself, in a letter dated 14th March, 1802, 
written to William Kibble, an intimate Scotch friend, resi- 
dent in Bolton : " Alek, poor Alek, is gone to his long home ! 
It was to me like an electric shock. Well, he was a good 
man ; his memory shall be dear, and his worth had in 
remembrance, by all who knew him. Death, like a thief, 
nips off our friends, kindred, and acquaintances, one by 
one, till the natural chain is broken, link after link, and 
leaves us scarce a wish to stop behind them. My brother 
Hugh and I are all that now remain at home, with our old 
mother, bending under age and frailty, and but seven 
years back, nine of us used to sit at dinner together. (I still 
moralise sometimes.) I cannot but remember that such 
things were, and those most dear to me." 

By and by, Hugh having married, Robert alone was left 
with his widowed mother, and in the fulness of his heart 
wrote ' The Filial Vow,'* which he faithfully kept. No trait 
in our author's character is more calculated to interest the 
reader in his favour, than the unwearied regard which he 
displayed for the welfare of his surviving parent. She 
outlived him thirteen years, having died in 1823, at an 
advanced age. It is gratifying to know, that the attentions 
of which she was deprived by his death were amply sup- 
plied by her surviving children. 

Again settled in his native place, Tannahill resumed his 
labours at the loom. More than once he had it in his 
power to become foreman, or overseer, in a manufacturing 
establishment ; but he preferred remaining at an occupa- 
tion, which, while it secured a sufficiency for his wants, 

* P. 167. 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. XIX 

left his time more at his own disposal. In plying the 
shuttle, — in the composition of verses, — in the society of a 
few friends of congenial tastes, — and in straying amidst 
the beautiful scenery which surrounds his native town, — 
his days passed peacefully away. Contentment with his 
humble lot, and regardlessness of preferment, are well ex- 
pressed in these lines : 

" Though humble my lot, not ignoble's my state, 

Let me still be contented though poor ; 
What Destiny brings, be resigned to my fate, 

Though Misfortune should knock at my door. 
I care not for honour, preferment, nor wealth, 

Nor the titles that affluence yields, 
While blithely I roam., in the heyday of health, 

'Midst the charms of my dear native fields." * 

About this period of his life, Tannahill made the 
acquaintance of an individual, with whom his name was 
destined to become indissolubly connected. This was the 
late Robert Archibald Smith, the musical composer, 
who had about that time settled there, and of whom a 
separate Memoir is subjoined. " My first introduction to 
Tannahill," says Smith, "was in consequence of hearing 
his song, ■ Blithe was the time,' sung, while it was yet in 
manuscript. I was so much struck with the beauty and 
natural simplicity of the language, that I found means, 
shortly afterwards, of being introduced to its author. The 
acquaintance thus formed between us, gradually ripened 
into a warm and steady friendship, that was never in- 
terrupted in a single instance, till his lamented death." 
. . . . " For several years previous to his death, 
we commonly spent the Saturday afternoons by a walk to 
the country ; but if the badness of the weather prevented 
us from enjoying this weekly recreation, the afternoon was 
passed in my room, reading, and reviewing, what pieces he 

* See this song, p. 61. 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 



had composed through the week, or if I had any new 
music, I played, or sung it over to him."* 

Some of our author's songs having been set to original 
and appropriate music by Smith, and Ross of Aberdeen, 
they attained an extensive popularity. The* fame of the 
"obscure, verse-making weaver/' (as he styles himself in a 
letter to a friend,) now reached London, and about the 
year 1805. having been requested to become a contributor 
to a leading metropolitan magazine, he wrote for it, * The 
Braes of Gleniffer,' the ' Ode to Sincerity/ the * Dirge,* 
and the * Portrait of Guilt.' Encouraged by his success, 
he collected his poems and songs into a volume, which 
appeared in 1807. The impression consisted of 900 
copies, which were disposed of in a few weeks. In a 
modest advertisement prefixed to that edition, he thus ex- 
pressed himself: "The author of the following poems, 
from a hope that they possess some little merit, has ven- 
tured to publish them ; yet, fully sensible of that blinding 
partiality with which writers are apt to view their own 
productions, he offers them to the public with unfeigned 
diffidence. When the man of taste and discrimination 
reads them, he will no doubt find many passages that 
might have been better, but his censures may be qualified 
with the remembrance, that they are the effusions of an 
unlettered mechanic, whose hopes, as a poet, extend no 
farther, than to be reckoned respectable among the minor 
bards of his country." Of these hopes, he had an ample 
realization ; for his songs attained, among all classes, 
a degree of popularity, which had been reached by none 
since the days of Burns. He could scarcely enter a com- 
pany met for amusement, without hearing one of them 
sung. But of all the proofs of their popularity, he often 
declared, that the most grateful to his feelings was, the 

* Extract from a communication made by Smith to the author 
of the Essay prefixed to * The Harp of Renfrewshire,' and there 
inserted, p. xxxiv. 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 



having his musings interrupted, during a solitary walk, by 
the voice of a country girl, in an adjoining field, whom he 
overheard singing by herself, a song of his own, — * We'll 
meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side.' In a 
similar strain, we find him thus expressing himself, in a 
letter to a friend : " Perhaps, the highest pleasure ever I 
derived from these things, has been in hearing, as I walked 
down the pavement at night, a girl within doors, rattling 
away at some one of them."* Such tributes as these are 
akin to quoting an author, which we have great authority 
for holding as the highest compliment that can be paid 
to him.f 

With several acquaintances who lived at a distance, 
Tannahill kept up a regular correspondence. Having had 
an opportunity of perusing some of his letters, we shall 
intersperse extracts from them, throughout the subsequent 
part of this narrative. Although the reader will not 
find, in these simple epistles, any portion of the originality 
and vigour of Burns, or of the elegance, the "grace beyond 
the reach of art," which pervades the letters of Cowper, he 
may, nevertheless, be gratified by their perusal, exhibiting 
as they do, better than any elaborate description can 
accomplish, the friendly and ingenuous disposition of the 
man. Our author's letters, like his poetry, are character- 
ized by neatness, simplicity, and a total absence of pre- 
tence. " Fine-spun letter-writing," (as he says in one of 
them,) " has never been any part of my study." It argues 
much for the purity of his taste, that, in all his composi- 
tions, he avoided that ornate and grandiloquent style, 
which so many imperfectly educated poets seem to consider 
essential to good writing. 

* Letter to James King, 10th Sept., 1809. 

t " I remember," (says the excellent Hannah More, in a 

letter,) " that my dear old friend, Dr Johnson, once asked me, 

'What was the greatest compliment you could pay to an author?' 

I replied, 'To quote him.' 'Thou art right, my child,' said he." 



MEMOIE OF TANNAHILL. 



One of his most esteemed correspondents was James 
Clark, a person of considerable musical attainments, who 
was master of the band of the Argyleshire Militia. 
The following are extracts from a letter to Clark, dated 
Paisley, 20th September, 1807. " My dear friend, I re- 
ceived your very welcome letter, dated 19th July, and 
should have answered it ere now, but the truth is, I have 
been obliged to scribble so much of late, that writing any 
thing is become a real labour to me. However, that 
apathy is now beginning to wear off, and I promise you, 
that I will be more punctual in future. — I received the 
packet which you forwarded by Mr Donaldson, and am 
highly pleased with the kindness Mr Ross of Aberdeen 
has shown me ; in all our dealings, he has used me like a 
gentleman. The music he has set to my songs, I think, 
is excellently suited to the words. Have you tried that to 
the ' Highland Plaid ?' It stamps a value on the words, 
which they would by no means possess without it. Smith 
and Barr are well pleased with them. By the by, have 
you heard that Mr R. A.* is now precentor to our old 
church ? Dr Boog sent for him about two months since, 
and he engaged with him for ten or twelve pounds per 
annum. Messrs Stuart, Cumming, and Lock, sit in his 
band. His employment in the teaching line has, as yet, 
scarcely come up to his wishes, but the proper season for 
it is just coming in. He has bespoke a room for it above 
the Cross, and is going to open a class for young ladies 
and gentlemen some of these nights. The influence of the 
Old Kirk gentry may be of use to him. Mr Ross has like- 
wise set music to * The Braes o' Gleniffer.' It does 
capitally ; it is published by Hamilton in a very elegant 
style. — I was not a little sorry that I did not see you on 
the night before you left Paisley. However, at that time I 



* By this abbreviation R. A. Smith was familiarly called by 
his friends. 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. Xxiii 



was poorly, and even in your company would have been 
as flat as a flounder." — After giving his correspondent 
some local news, he says: *' I will write you a little song 
on chance, — I don't know how it may please you : * While 
the grey-pinioned lark,' &c. — Now, my dear friend, I hope 
you will not long deny me the pleasure of letting me hear 
from you. There are so many rubs in life, that we ought 
to make one another as comfortable as possible ; and I 
assure you, that hearing from you frequently affords me 
much happiness. Give my best respects to my cousin, 
and to my friend Tom, and Mrs Buchanan ; and rest 
assured, that among your numerous acquaintances, none 
esteems you more truly than your friend, R. T." 

Another correspondent was James King, a soldier in 
the Renfrewshire Militia, then quartered in England. 
This old friend of the bard is still in life, and is the 
author of a number of poetical productions, which have 
occasionally appeared in the periodical publications of the 
day. His verses entitled * Talavera,' written in 1809, in 
honour of that victory, went the round of the newspapers, 
and found a place in the Scots Magazine. Writing to 
King, on 2d November, 1807, he says: "Dear James, I re- 
ceived yours of the 22d September, in due time, and ac- 
cording to your wish, let your mother know that you were 
well. She called on me the other night, and wished that 
I would write to you directly, as she was very impatient to 
have a letter from you; (independent of that, I should have 
written a fortnight ago.) You are sensible of a mother's 
solicitude, and will not fail giving her that gratification. — ! 
Trade is remarkably low with us. Those who have their 
work continued are obliged to do it at pitifully low prices, 
and those who are thrown out of employment, can scarcely 
get the offer of any by calling through. Lappets 9 00 have 
been offered at three pence nett. However, people's minds 
are not yet damped so much as you have seen in former de- 
pressions. — I am obliged to you for sending the songs in your 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 



last. * Thou'rt fair, morning of May !' is a beautiful little bal- 
lad, but I would advise you to throw out the last verse, as 
the subject is quite complete without it; besides, being in 
five stanzas, it will not suit any double tune. In verse 
4th, line 3d, instead of ' will retire,' I would prefer, ' is 
retired.' * The morning trembles o'er the deep/ likewise 
pleases me very well. ' O why is thy hand so cold, love, 
possesses some merit, but I think it inferior to the others. 
In my opinion, your songs surpass your other productions, 
and I would advise you to apply yourself to that depart- 
ment of our favourite amusement, in preference to any 
other. Another thing which I beg leave to mention, and 
which always makes a song appear more masterly, is, to 
make the 1st and 3d lines of the verse to rhyme. In the 
old ballad style, it may be dispensed with,, but in songs 
written in the idiom of the present day, it is* expected, and 
reckoned not so well without it; — but you are already sen- 
sible of all that." . . . . "I am happy that the 
songs in my volume please you ; but when you mention 
them as equalling Burns's, I am afraid that the partiality 
of friendship weighs a good deal in that decision. You 
have never mentioned the Interlude:* I suspect that, in 
general, it is reckoned not worth much. — I will now finish 
with some rhymes to you." — Here he copied the four first 
verses of * The Queensferry boatie rows light.' — "I don't 
know any air that answers the above measure; let me hear 
whether you know any to it. — You will no doubt know 
* Lord Moira's reel.' I have been trying verses to it, 
and will write you all that I was able to make of it." — 
After copying the words of the song, which subsequently 
became so popular, * Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes,' 
he added : " I own, I am somewhat half-pleased with 
the above myself; but that is always the case when a piece 

* « The Soldier's Return/ a dramatic attempt of TannahuTs 
to be afterwards noticed. 



MEMOIR OF T ANNA HILL. XXV 

is newly finished, and it must lie past sometime before we 
are capable of judging rightly how it may stand. Mention 
any defects you may see in it." 

Of the enthusiasm with which he followed his favourite 
pursuit, the following letter to Clark, dated 28th May» 
1808, affords a pleasing proof: " My dear friend, I hope you 
have been blessed with your usual share of good health, 
since I heard from you. I am now going to beg of you, 
as a very particular favour, that you would send me, as 
soon as you can, any fine Irish airs, of the singing kind, 
which you may chance to know. I don't mean any of 
those already very common, sucli as, * The Lakes of Kil- 
larney,' • Shannon's flowery banks,' &c. What makes me 
so importunate with you is, that if I can accomplish songs 
worthy of being attached to them, I shall have the pleasure 
of seeing them printed in, perhaps, the most respectable 
work of the kind that ever has been published in Britain. 
Now, dear Jamie, as this is placing me on my very soul's 
hobby, do try to oblige me. Should you favour me with 
any, they must be rale natives of the dear country, for I 
believe there are many imitations composed on this side 
of the water. I am sure I have heard some very pretty 
Irish airs played as retreats ; try to recollect some of 
them." . , . . 

The work to which our poet was so ambitious to be- 
come a contributor, was Mr George Thomson's Select 
Melodies. He had already begun to correspond with Mr 
Thomson on the subject, but his earlier letters to that 
gentleman have not been preserved. On 6th June, 1808, 
he sent to Mr Thomson the Irish air, ' The green 
woods of Treugh,' with words which he had written 
for it, accompanied by the following letter : — " Dear 
Sir, The above little air pleased me so much, that 
I could not help trying a verse to it. I believe it has 
never been published. It was taken down from an old 
Irish woman, singing a native song to it, which she said, 



j 



XXVI MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 

when rendered into English, was in praise of the green 
woods of Treugh. 'Tis in such a wild measure, that I 
could think of no other form of stanza to suit it. I shall 
be happy to hear whether you have ever before seen it. 
— With regard to Nancy Vernon, you may judge how 
sorry I was, on being assured by a friend, that my set of 
the air was incomplete. I thought, of course, that poor 
Sheelah was entirely lost, and have been earnestly trying 
to accommodate matters between them. I find that the 
last line but one of each of the verses must be repeated 
before they can agree together, and am thus obliged to 
write both the air and the song a second time, to show you 
how they now stand. The sides of many lakes and rivers 
are properly denominated banks, because being steep they 
really are so ; but in my opinion, when a lake or river is 
bounded by low level ground, it would be improper to call 
its margins by that appellation. We never say, the banks 
of the sea, and I think the term proper enough when 
applied to any bushy brae. I think the first word in the 
line very bad, and have made a little alteration on it, — 
perhaps not much for the better. I was highly gratified, 
on finding that the song met your approbation, and again 
return you my warmest thanks for mentioning any thing 
that you may judge incongruous : we must first know our 
errors, before there can be a possibility of amending them."* 
After copying the air of Nancy Vernon, and the amended 
words, he thus proceeds : — " I have fallen in with several 
very fine Irish airs, but I fear they are already published. 
Inform me if you know the following; * Kitty Tyrrell;' the 
4 Fair-hair'd Child;' or * Patheen a Fuen.' The first of 
these I am quite in raptures with. If you have them not 
already, I shall send them in my next Besides these, 1 



* He here alludes to the song, * Ah ! Sheelah, thou'rt my 
darling,' (p. 43,) and to some strictures which Mr Thomson had 
made on the first version of it. 



MEMOIR OF TAN N A HILL. 



have other two taken from memory, but I must have 
my most worthy musical friend, Mr Smith, to write 
them off correctly for me. He is just now poorly, and 
confined to his bed, else I would have sent them now. 
I have written to a very tasty cronie, who is in the 
Argylesbire Militia Band; I know he will gladly oblige 
me with any thing of the kind that he can procure. 
— In looking through my songs, I find the following 
English stanzas, which were written about four years ago 
on the death of a very beautiful young woman, who died 
of a consumption in her eighteenth summer. She was to 
have been wedded to a friend of mine ; and sympathy for 
his grief at that melancholy event, gave rise to the present 
effusion. I am sorry to add, that the poor fellow ever 
since seems to be reckless of life, aud regardless of every 
thing else than his bottle. I thought it might perhaps 
please you for * O'Connell's Lament.' * — Now, my dear 
Sir, do not mistake me, nor think that I am forcing these 
things upon your hand. All that I wish is, that you may 
have them past you, so that when you come to make your 
selection, some of them may stand a chance of being among 
the chosen.'' .... 

Two months afterwards (6th August, 1808,) he addressed 
Mr Thomson thus: — "Dear Sir, I was favoured with yours 
of the 16th ult., and am much obliged to you for your 
candid remarks on my last song. I am really ashamed of 
these "bungled airs which I have sent you : not acquainted 
with the rules of transposition, and knowing very little of 
music, it was indeed presumption in me to think of writing 
them for you. Let my fondness to send you something of 
the kind plead my exculpation, and be so kind as consign 
them to the flames. I never was more ambitious to have 
a song to any air than to ' Kitty :' it is worthy of the best 

* See the stanzas at page 57, commencing with, * Responsive, 
ye woods, wing your echoes along.' 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 



poetry that ever was penned : by your friendly suggestions 
I have done all in my power to accomplish one to it, — 
with what success, you must now determine. You are 
indeed 'fastidious? but not * too 1 much so. It is in great, 
part owing to that, that Scotland can now with justice 
boast of, perhaps, the best collection of songs that ever was 
produced; and although I may at times pay as much defer- 
ence to my own dear opinion, as ever fool did, yet to 
yours in these things, I shall ever most cheerfully submit. 
My highest gratification, next to the pleasure of composing 
a song, is to see it published in some respectable work; 
and if you think the present one will now stand for a 
place in yours, I shall gladly let it lie past, till convenient 
for you to publish ; if otherwise, I perhaps will send it to 
some magazine, or give it to some one of the music sellers. 
As the first four lines of the concluding stanza correspond 
with the superstitions of the common people in Ireland, I 
thought proper to retain them. I beg leave to transcribe 
you the whole of the song." 

Some farther correspondence took place, but none 
of our author's pieces were deemed suitable for Mr 
Thomson's collection. Nevertheless, he continued his 
quest after Irish airs, with all the ardour of a genuine 
knight-errant, as his letters abundantly show. For ex- 
ample, in writing to Clark, 24th November, 1808, he 
says : " I in due time received your very obliging letter, 
of date the 22d June, and must again cry you mercy 
for not acknowledging it sooner. The airs you favoured 
me with are quite such as I wanted. They were all new 
to me, except ' Cothuelan Treil,' which I had past me 
under the name of ' Kitty Tyrrel.' Being busied with 
other matters, I have not yet attempted songs to any of 
them, save the above, which, I am happy to say, has obtain- 
ed the promise of a place in the work formerly mention- 
ed; but as these things are best lying past till published 
in form, I have not given away one copy of any J have 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 



written for it, which, indeed, are only other two. You 
mention the collection of O'Ferrol, and another, with the 
compositions of Carolan, &c. I believe I might find them 
on inquiry, but I would rather pick up any wild little 
straggler, such as * Dermot,' which from their not being so 
common, have a greater chance of being noticed. You 
will doubly oblige me by endeavouring to procure one or 
two more of the above description." After giving some 
local news, he gaily says : " Remember me to James King 
by a hard slap on the left shouther, and three hearty 
shakes of the right hand, which kindness you will please 
set down to my account. 1 have no good news to tell 
you, — no, nor very bad ones neither ; but concerning 
dear tobacco, dear whiskey, dear candles, dear every tiling, 
the obliging bearer of this will inform you." 

Between our author and his poetical friend King, a 
regular interchange of their productions was kept up, 
during the residence of the latter in England with his 
regiment. Tannahill's critical observations are always 
judicious. In a letter to King, (17th July, 1808,) he 
says : " Give me your severest remarks on the above songs. 
Every coof may say a thing is capital, beautiful, &c. ; but 
I'd rather have the candid criticism of a man of taste than 
the incense of ten thousand fools." Again : (28th August,) 
" I am much obliged to you for your free criticisms on my 
last song, but I must assure you, I have never seen a line 
of BloomfiekTs * Highland Drover.' I was sensible of the 
two first lines of the last verse being similar to 'dark iours 
the night,' but I really think they are as much mine as 
Ossian's, MacPherson's, or any body's. However, if you 
think they will be found fault with, I shall inclose them 
with inverted commas. You mention * scath'd oak,' as 
being nothing new. You are right ; but because one 
writer may have said 'whistling wind,' 'dreary night,' 
' gloomy winter/ and so on, is that enough to prevent 
c3 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 



others ever after from using the same epithets ? No ; if 
one was thus bracketted, it would be impossible to write 
any thing at all. But by this time you are convinced, and 
I will drop it.'* On 4th June, 1809, he writes: " I hope 
your ode will be put to a better purpose than being 
used for match paper. I think you might easily polish it 
a little. ' Owen's Return,' is very well written ; yet I 
think you might have given it a more pleasing cast, by 
making him come home * before his locks were grey. 
Besides, I am not sure of its being proper to give him a 
harp at all; it is such an unwieldy instrument, that the 
mind cannot easily suppose a soldier to be carrying one of 
them about with him." In the same letter Tannahill 
evinces his good feeling, by expressing himself in the 
following terms, of an unpublished, and now forgotten 
satire of his own : " I must entreat you to burn ' John 

M 's Last Will.' I had no thought of its being in 

existence. I was surprised lately on seeing a person with 
a copy, which he lent me. He did not know of its being 
mine. I have burned it. Besides its being childishly 

low, John M is an industrious, peaceable, old man t 

and is no subject for ridicule." 

Clark having now removed to Ayr, applied to Tan- 
nahill to write an ode, for an anniversary meeting 
of the Burns' Club in that favourite abode of the 
bard, whose birth they were about to celebrate. The 
answer, dated 17th December, 1809, ran thus : — " My 
dear friend, There is not a man in the world whom 
I would wish to oblige before yourself, and I am 
sorry that I cannot comply with your flattering proposal, 
that I should write an ode for your ensuing anniversary. 
A few days prior to the receipt of yours, Wylie was 
chosen for our next year's President, and in a moment of 
enthusiasm, I came under a promise to furnish him with 
something of that kind, for what he calls his night I 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 



shall attempt something ; — however, I tremble when I 
think of it.* To do justice to the subject, would require 
the abilities of a Campbell, or a Scott, and I almost de- 
spair of being able to produce any thing half so good, as 
what has already been, by different hands, given to the 
public ; besides, I know that the society are determined to 
have a blazing account of our meeting sent to some of the 
newspapers ; of course, my rhymes are designed to be 
attached as a train to the dazzling luminary, or as a lang 
wigle-waglin' tail to a callan's dragon, [boy's kite.] We 
have clever fellows in the society, — men of genius, and 
college-bred, — but there seems to be a jealousy subsisting 
among them, or a fear of one another, which has prevent- 
ed any account worthy of our former meetings from being 
given in print. I hope our next will be better. — Smith 
had the best concert on Tuesday night, both for per- 
formance and attendance, that ever I witnessed in this 
place ; and who could tamely return all at once to sowen- 
brods, and cauld seat-trees f\ — Allow me now to thank 
you for the music you sent me ; except * The Fair-haired 
Child,' all the airs are new to me. I have found a set of 
' P e ggy O'Leven' here, so you need not mind about it. 
— I was quite sensible that in the song I sent you, [' The 
Five Friends,' p. 78.] our most worthy friend Smith de- 
served something more than merely musical to be said of 
him ; but the shortness of the stanza confined one so 
much, that I could not get my breath half out about any 
of you. — Let me hear from you soon ; your happiness and 
welfare ever add to mine. I would send you some rhymes, 
but have not leisure at present to copy them. I remain, 
my dear friend, yours most faithfully, R. T." 

* The ode which he wrote on this occasion for the Paisiey 
club, will be found at p. 159. 

•)• Sowen-brod, a board used by weavers, on which they put 
the sowens, or paste, used for stiffening the yarn : seat-tree, the 
wooden seat occupied by the weaver at the loom. 



XXX11 MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 

We have now arrived at the beginning of the year 1810. 
The monotonous and uneventful life of our poet was des- 
tined to be, ere long, cut short, in a manner which would 
be at all times startling, and which proves doubly so, when 
contrasted with its usual tenor. He became the victim of 
a morbid sensibility of mind, so often the fatal fruit of that 
singular combination of feeling, called the poetical tem- 
perament, which by turns so raises and depresses the 
minds of those on whom it has been conferred, that it 
often becomes more a curse than a blessing : — " They soar 
to heaven, or turn in vaulted hell," was the strong expres- 
sion of one who suffered fearfully under its influence. 
(Burns.) Traces of this state of mind are to be found in 
Tannahill's writings, though it may have escaped observa- 
tion in his lifetime. Thus in the * Epistle to Scadlock,* 
written so early as 1804, we have the following unequi- 
vocal acknowledgment : 

" But ere a few short summers gae, 
Your friend will meet his kindred clay ; 
For fell disease tugs at my breast 
To hurry me away." 

Again, in a letter written in 1808, he says : " We are a set 
of capricious beings, — that dismal, melancholy mood, in 
which I wrote to you last, has considerably worn off. 
One of the causes of it was this : — A fellow who for a long 
time had lived with me upon the most intimate and 
friendly terms, took it into his dizzy pow, that he was 
advancing rapidly in the highway of fortune ; he of course 
must drop all low company ; he had the effrontery even to 
say it, and used me and others in such a way as led us to 
see that he considered us as belonging to that order. A 
kick-up, which we had on that account, threw me into a 
kind of fever for some days." In the following year he 
wrote thus to a friend who had neither given nor received 

* p. no. 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. XXX111 

offence : " Although we seldom see one another, I should 
be truly and deeply mortified to suspect that any neglect 
of mine had lessened me in your esteem. We sons of 
labour cannot square every thing to our mind, and every 
man has his fault." — This unhappy state of mind was 
aggravated by the weakness of his bodily frame. His 
constitution was never strong, and had a tendency to 
consumption, of which insidious disease his father, his 
sister, and three of his brothers had all died. 

Other circumstances combined to depress his mind. 
Several of his printed pieces had been severely, and 
perhaps justly, censured, and he became convinced that 
his volume had been prematurely given to the world. 
Having resolved, therefore, to endeavour to establish 
more securely his character as a poet, he projected 
the publication, in a handsome form, of a volume of 
his songs with their melodies which he had collect- 
ed. Smith promised to arrange them with an accom- 
paniment for the piano-forte, and another friend (An- 
drew Blaikie,) offered to engrave the work on very 
liberal terms ; but, ultimately, the intention of publishing 
in this form was abandoned, as being too expensive. He 
then prepared for the press, a new and carefully corrected 
edition of his poems and songs, the manuscript of which 
was sent to the late Mr Constable of Edinburgh. Unfor- 
tunately that enterprising publisher was in London at the 
time, and when written to on the subject, answered, that 
he had more new works on hand than he could undertake 
that season ; accordingly the manuscript was returned. 

This disappointment preyed heavily on the spirits of 
the unhappy Tannahill. But he was destined not to pass 
away from this earth, without receiving a tribute to his 
genius, which was alike honourable to himself and to the 
individual by whom it was conferred. We allude to a 
pilgrimage which the Ettrick Shepherd made to Paisley, 
in the spring of 1810, for the express purpose of enjoying 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 



the fellowship of one, whose untutored mind, like his own, 
was gifted with the magic voice of song. They spent only 
one night in each other's company, and ere they parted, 
Tannahill convoyed the Shepherd on foot half way to 
Glasgow. It was a melancholy adieu our author gave 
him. He grasped his hand, and with tears in his eyes 
said, " Farewell ! we shall never meet again ! Farewell ! 
I shall never see you more !" — a prediction which was too 
soon to be verified. In a letter to one of his friends,* 
he noticed this meeting with manifest pride. " We 
had a good deal of conversation over the poets of 
the day. He tells me he has been in company with 
Walter Scott, Hector MacNeil, Thomas Campbell, and 
others of our Scottish Worthies." This is the last letter 
but one which Tannahill is known to have written, and 
we shall give the conclusion of it, to show how strongly 
his ruling passion for the recovery of neglected airs influ- 
enced him, and how anxiously he attended to the comfort 
of his friends, till within a few weeks of his death. " I 
have not time at present to write you ' Gloom} r Winter/ 
but will send it soon. Meantime, I will thank you for a 
few of the Welsh airs you mention, if you can easily pro- 
cure them. And I must again enjoin you to write to your 
mother. Nothing in the world gives her greater pleasure 
than to hear of your welfare, and she is always very 
unhappy when you neglect writing to her for any length 
of time." 

The melancholy to which Tannahill had been occasion- 
ally subject, now became deep and habitual. He evinced 
a proneness to imagine that his best friends were disposed 
to injure him, and a certain jealous fear of his claims to 
genius being impugned. These imaginary grievances were 
confided to his faithful adviser Smith, who found it impos- 
sible to convince him of the hallucination under which he 



* To King, 1st April, 1810. 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. XXXV 

laboured. His eyes sank, his countenance became pale, 
and his body emaciated. The strange and incoherent 
texture of some poetical pieces which he wrote about this 
time, betrayed the state of his mind. In short, it became 
apparent that a breaking up of his mental and bodily 
powers was at hand. He now set himself to destroy all 
his manuscripts; not a scrap which he couid possibly 
collect was allowed to escape the flames. This is the 
more to be regretted, since the corrections and additions 
he had made for a second edition of his works, and some 
unpublished pieces of much merit, all of which fell a prey 
to the flames, would have added greatly to his reputation. 
Such of his unpublished compositions as had been sent to 
correspondents, and could be recovered, have been inserted 
in the present, and in the other posthumous editions of his 
works. The first verses of some of those songs which 
were destroyed, he had inserted in a music-book, from 
which they have been transferred to the end of Part First 
of this volume, where they appear as Fragments. 

About this time he sent to his intimate friend, the late 
Alexander Borland of Glasgow, a letter which very clearly 
shows the sadness of heart with which he was oppressed. 
" I am," he says, " an ungrateful wretch in not writing 
you before to-day. My conscience has been upbraiding 
me these ten days past, for delaying it. I hope this will 
find you, and your two Annies, all as well as I wish 
you. My spirits have been as dull and cheerless as 
winter's gloomiest days.'' He thus concludes: "What 
has the world to do with, or who cares (take the mass of 
mankind,) for the feelings of others ? Am I right ? — 
Happiness attend you. R. Tannahill." 

Soon after, he visited the same friend in Glasgow. He 
complained of the insupportable misery of life, and dis- 
played such proofs of mental derangement, that Borland 
considered it prudent to convey him back to Paisley, and 
apprize his relations of his condition. Apparently tran- 



XXXVI MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 

quillized, he retired to rest, and was left for the night, but 
suspicion having been excited in about an hour afterwards, 
it was discovered that he had stolen out unperceived- 
Search was made in every direction, and by the dawn of 
the morning, the coat of the poet was discovered lying at 
the side of the tunnel of a neighbouring brook, pointing 
out but too surely where his body was to be found. This 
sad catastrophe happened on the 17th of May, 1810, when 
he had only reached his thirty-sixth year. 

Some biographers have asserted, that our author led a 
life of penury and privation, and to that cause his death 
has been attributed. So far from the assertion having any 
foundation, his means were always above his wants. Long 
before his death, he deposited twenty pounds in a bank* 
and when that event occurred, the money remained un- 
touched. The house in which he resided with his mother 
was her own property, and she was not only herself com- 
fortably situated, but was enabled, by indulging in little 
charities, to contribute to the comforts of others. Again, it 
has been insinuated, that he was the victim of intemperate 
habits. It cannot be denied that his celebrity as a 
song-writer led idle and frivolous persons to solicit his 
company, and that an adjournment to a tavern was 
frequently tbe result. Such intrusions he often bitter- 
ly regretted his want of fortitude to withstand. The 
facility of his nature, with perhaps some hankerings after 
praise, prevailed over his better judgment. The deviations 
from propriety into which he was sometimes led, produced 
the most agonising reflections. Excessive indulgence in 
liquor was alike repulsive to his feelings, and forbidden 
by the weakness of his frame. In a letter written a 
few months before his death, he says : " When at any 
time I have been led into it, I never felt so unhappy, 
so truly miserable in all my life : a social night passed 
in moderation is life to me, but the bestial roar of 
inebriation, I never could, nor ever shall be able to 



MEMOIR OF T ANNA HILL. XXXV11 

bear."* And in one of his Epistles f he represents him- 
self as sitting, 

' Retir'd, disgusted, from the tavern roar, 
Where strong-lung'd Ignorance does highest soar, 
Where silly Ridicule is pass'd for Wit, 
And shallow Laughter takes her gaping fit- ' 

His lamentable end is mainly to be referred to that disease 
of mind, to which none can ■ minister ;' to that * rooted 
sorrow,' which none can ' pluck from the memory,' — but 
wherein * the patient must minister to himself.' If any 
should, notwithstanding, be disposed to judge harshly of 
the humble bard, we would remind them that the gigantic 
mind of Johnson himself was not unfrequently overborne 
by the workings of the same morbid feeling; and that, but 
for the merciful interposition of Providence, on more 
occasions than one, the amiable and highly-gifted Cowper 
would, by his own confession, have fallen under its in- 
fluence. — " He who thy being gave shall judge of thee 
alone." 

The character and manners of Tannahill may be read in 
his works. Blameless in his life, modest and unassuming in 
his demeanour, warmly attached to his own home, kindred, 
and friends, with a mind quite transparent and unsophisti- 
cated, and a disposition tender and humane, — we need 
not be surprised on finding how affectionately Ids memory 
is still, at the distance of nearly thirty years, cherished by 
his surviving acquaintances. In stature he was rather 
under the middle size. His hair was light brown, his eyes 
were grey; his features had a contemplative and pleasing 
expression. His appearance was not indicative of superior 
endowment. In mixed company he was bashful and taciturn, 
seldom joining in general conversation, but was apt to get 
into an interesting discussion with the person who sat next 
to him. He was but rarely known to utter a joke, and we 

* To King, 12th November, 1809. f To Borland, p. 114 
d 



XXXV111 MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 

are not to look to him for flashes of wit, or lively repartee. 
Among intimate friends he was communicative and unre- 
served, and often expressed himself with felicity, especially 
when his feelings were excited by any tale of wo, — any 
act of meanness or oppression. He was very averse to 
hold intercourse with people in. the higher walks of life, 
his ignorance of the world leading him to suppose that 
from them nothing but cold formality and repulsive pride 
were to be experienced. His friend Smith, who knew 
better, contrived in one instance to inveigle him to a 
dinner at the house of a gentleman in the neighbourhood, 
where, under the combined influence of the music, the 
affability of the ladies, and the easy deportment of his 
intelligent host, the prejudices of the poet were gradually 
dispelled.* In this unwillingness to mingle with his 

* Smith's account of this affair is so good in its way, that we 
shall here transcribe it : — " Miss of was particu- 
larly fond of the Scottish melody, ' Lord Balgownie's Favourite,' 
and had expressed a wish to see it united to good poetry. I 
accordingly applied to my friend, who produced his song, 
* Gloomy winter's now awa,' in a few days. As soon as I had 
arranged the air, with symphonies and accompaniment for the 
piano forte, I waited on the lady', who was much delighted with 
the verses, and begged of me to invite the author to take a walk 
with me to the house at any leisure time. I knew that it 
would be almost impossible to prevail on Robert to allow himself 
to be introduced by fair means, so, for once, I made use of the 
only alternative in my power, by beguiling him thither during 
our first Saturday's ramble, under the pretence of being obliged 
to call with some music I had with me for the ladies. This, 
however, could not be effected, till I had promised not to make 
him known, in case any of the family came to the door; but how 

great was his astonishment, when Miss came forward to 

invite him into the house by name ! I shall never forget the 
awkwardness with which he accompanied us to the music room. 
He sat as it were quite petrified, till the magic of the music, and the 
great affability of the ladies, reconciled him to his situation. In 

a short time Mr came in, was introduced to his visitor in 

due form, and with that goodness of heart, and simplicity of 
manner, for which he is so deservedly esteemed by all who have 
the pleasure of knowing hiia, chatted with his guest till nearly 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 



superiors, may be discovered the cardinal defect of his 
character. By associating only with acquaintances of his 
own narrow circle, where he was regarded as an oracle, he 
never had it in his power to acquire any knowledge of the 
world, or the world's ways. Had he not exhibited such 
an antipathy to the society of his superiors in point of 
rank, information, and learning, he might have enjoyed 
opportunities for correcting the defects of his education, 
expanding his views, and strengthening his powers of 
expression. When writing to one of his correspondents 
about the first edition of his works, we find him thus 
expressing himself: " I hate dependence on printers, 
paper-folks, or any body. On inquiry, they found I was 
poor. Nothing could be done without I found security. 
That was easily procured : then, they were most happy to 
serve me in any thing I wanted. 'Tis the way of the 
world! Self-interest is the ruling passion. Merit might 
pine in obscurity for ever, if Pride, or Interest, for their 
own gratification, were not to hand the lone sufferer into 
public notice."* This is a notable instance of his ignor- 
ance of the laws which regulate the business of the world, 

dinner time, when Robert again became terribly uneasy, as Mr 

insisted on our staying to dine with the family. Many a 

rueful look was cast to me, and many an excuse was made to get 
away, but, alas ! there was no escaping with a good grace, and 
finding that I was little inclined to understand his signals, the 
kind request was at length reluctantly complied with. . . . 
After a cheerful glass or two, the restraint he was under gradu- 
ally wore away, and he became tolerably communicative. I be- 
lieve that when we left the mansion, the poet entertained very 
different sentiments from those with which he had entered it. 
He had formed an opinion that nothing, save distant pride, and 
cold formality, was to be met with from people in the higher 
walks of life, but on experiencing the very reverse of his imagin- 
ings, he was quite delighted, and when Mr 's name hap- 
pened to be mentioned in his hearing afterwards, it generally 
called forth expressions of respect and admiration." — Harp of 
Renfrewshire, p. xxxiv. 

* Letter to Kibble, 11th April, 1807. 
d9 



xl MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. 

combined with morbidnessof feeling. A little cool reflec- 
tion might have convinced him that tradesmen could not 
be expected to run any risk for one in whom they were 
not particularly interested, and whose merits, as an author, 
were at that time only partially recognised. 

Such are the short and simple annals of Robert Tanna- 
hiil. With a few observations on the character of his 
writings, we shall conclude the Memoir. 

His Miscellaneous Pieces, which are mostly occasional, 
are of various degrees of merit. They do not interest the 
reader so much as he seems to have expected ; yet they 
display throughout, benevolence of affection, and sensi- 
bility to the charms of rural scenery ; they contain, also, 
not a few judicious moral reflections. In these produc- 
tions his defects of style are chiefly to be found. The 
most obvious are, the too frequent use of the figure of 
personification ; such false quantities as praeti'se, main- 
tenance, literature ; and a fondness for harsh and unusual 
compounds, such as fate-scourg'd, clump-lodg'd, whim-fed. 
He once attempted dramatic composition, but this, the 
most ambitious of his efforts, was unsuccessful, and the 
criticism to which it was subjected annoyed him much. 
We allude to • The Soldier's Return, a Scottish Interlude, 
in two Acts,' which was published in the first edition of his 
Poems, but was omitted in most of the subsequent ones ; 
neither has it been inserted in the present.* The moral 
of the piece was good, but the plot was commonplace, 
and the execution indifferent. In all his writings, how- 
ever, he avoided the error fallen into by the generality 
of that swarm of poetasters, whom the brilliant success of 
Burns called into ephemeral existence, — the mistaking 

* We have, however, preserved the songs which it contained. 
These are, ' Langsyne, beside the woodland burn ;' * Yon bum- 
side ;' * O lassie, will ye tak' a man ;' '■ Our bonny Scotch lads ;' 
' From the rude bustling camp ;* and, < The dear Highland 
laddie, O. 



MEMOIR OF TANNAHILL. xli 



vulgarity for simplicity, which is as much removed from 
vulgarity on the one hand, as from affected point and 
puerile conceit on the other. It is chiefly for his Songs, 
then, that the name of Tannahill will be held in honour- 
able remembrance. Although in point of vigour, origin- 
ality, and humour, he is not to be put in comparison with 
the great master of the lyre just named, he was possessed 
of other qualities which the world has recognised as being, 
within their sphere, equally attractive. The most promi- 
nent of these are his fine and discriminating pictures of 
the Scottish landscape, and the Scottish peasantry. The 
singular fidelity and minuteness of his descriptions, prove 
that they were not mere poetical imaginings, but that he 
had found and studied them for himself in nature, — amidst 
the scenery, and in the society, of his own neighbourhood- 
For this striking quality, — for tenderness, — for delicacy 
and winning artlessness of expression, — and for skilful 
adaptation of words to re-echo the airs to which they are 
sung, he will ever hold a conspicuous place amidst the 
numerous band of his country's Minstrels. His strains are 
regarded with equal delight in hall and in cottage, — by 
the man of cultivated mind, as much as by the unlettered 
peasant ; — and this we look upon as the truest test of their 
excellence. 



MEMOIR OF SMITH. 



For inserting in this volume a biographical account of 
Smith, satisfactory reasons have, it is believed, been as- 
signed in the Prefatory Notice. 

Robert Archibald Smith was born in Reading,* 
the capital of Berkshire, on the 16th of November, 1780.f 
His father, Robert Smith, who was a native of East Kil- 
bride, near Glasgow, settled in Reading in 1774. He had 
previously been a silk-weaver in Paisley, but an extreme 
depression of business happening at that time, he, and 
many more of his fellow workmen, removed to England, 
where they had better prospects of carrying on their trade 
successfully. About a year and a half after he had taken 
up his abode in Reading, he married Ann Whitcher, 
a young woman of respectable connections, who, on the 
death of an uncle, succeeded to some property, of incon- 
siderable value. Besides this, Mrs Smith was left, through 
the friendship of two maiden ladies, the interest of a small 
sum in the funds, the principal being to devolve at her 
death on the subject of this Memoir. He was the second, 
and only surviving child of the marriage, an elder brother 
having died in infancy. 

* Reading was also the birthplace of the late Sir John Soane, 
the architect, and of Sergeant Talfourd. 

f This date is given on the authority of a memorandum in his 
own handwriting, on the frame of his likeness in his widow's 
possession, — painted in 1822. 



MEMOIR OF SMITH. Xiiii 



At a very early period, Robert gave indications of his 
genius for music. Even before he renounced the frock 
and pinafore, he was noted for his performances on the 
rustic whistle made of the elder-bush, or, (as it is called in 
Scotland,) hour-tree. The whistle was soon supplanted 
by a small German flute, which in its turn yielded to the 
violin. On this instrument he played respectably at ten 
years of age, and his performances were thought so extra- 
ordinary, that even the child was courted and caressed by 
veteran amateur performers, and invited to their concerts. 
From being for many years self-taught, he acquired a 
habit of holding the violin in an awkward position, which 
in after life he was never able wholly to rectify. 

Though the peculiar genius of Smith thus early de- 
veloped itself, his father, not imagining that his musical 
talents would prove beneficial to him, farther than as an 
innocent and agreeable relaxation from labour, and the 
mania for " infant prodigies" not having then extended to 
the good town of Reading, at once placed him in his own 
workshop. At weaving, as may well be supposed, he 
proved a dull and unapt scholar. His father had often 
the mortification, after patiently expounding the initiatory 
mysteries of the craft, to find, on looking up to observe 
whether due attention had been paid to his instructions i 
that his pupil was intently occupied in scratching musical 
notes with a pin on the wooden frame- work of the loom, 
or on the long thin rods called temples, which stretch the 
web, rapt in a happy ignorance of all the skill that pater- 
nal solicitude had wasted on him. Both parents had a 
taste for music, and as their songs were the popular 
melodies of their respective countries, the young musician 
early imbibed a passion for those artless, but effective 
strains, which remarkably unfolded itself in his various 
compositions in after life. His ear was exceedingly acute, 
and his memory most tenacious. Even while a boy, 



Xliv MEMOIR OF SMITH. 



one of his principal amusements was to note down such 
musical passages as floated uppermost in his mind. To 
this early practice may probahly be attributed the facility 
with which in after life he noted down traditional 
melodies, from the lips of uneducated songsters. As he 
grew up, he became a member of a church choir in Read- 
ing, and sometimes sang, and at other times performed 
sacred music on the flute or violin. He likewise joined 
the band of a regiment of volunteers, in which his first 
instrument was the flute, but latterly he played a second 
clarionet. Of the excursions he made with this band on 
the Thames during the evenings of summer, we have often 
heard our friend speak with rapture. They formed a 
sunny, and happy period in his youth, on which he loved 
to brood with unmingled delight. The calm twilight, the 
rippling of the gleaming waters, the delicious scenery on 
either bank of the silver Thames, and the soft music that 
ever and anon floated over the waters, were enjoyed by 
him with all the feelings of a poet ; and these feelings he 
could clothe in language singularly felicitous, for by nature 
he was as much poet as musician, but music had the start 
of her sister in his mind, and kept it through life. 

Tiie dulness of silk-weaving in Paisley had, as already 
seen, induced the father to remove to England ; and the 
same cause in Reading led him to return to Paisley, with 
his family, in the year 1800. There they betook them- 
selves to the weaving of muslin. If the loom proved irk- 
some to Robert in Reading, it gained no charms by its 
transplantation to Paisley. It was now doubly wearisome, 
totally unacquainted as he was with the management of a 
muslin web. One way or another, it became a source of 
perpetual annoyance to him. His mind could not be har- 
nessed to the " seat-tree ;" his spirits sank under his daily 
toil, and a deep melancholy made inroads on his health. 
Sincerely must he have sympathised in those " Groans 



MEMOIR OF SMITH. xlv 



from the Loom,"* which were uttered in the same place, 
a few years previously, by one who was engaged in the 
same uncongenial occupation, but who, bursting away 
from its thraldom, lived to establish for himself an immor- 
tal name, as the Ornithologist of America. Smith passed 
some months in Paisley without forming a single intimac\\ 
The manners of the people were unlike those of his asso- 
ciates in England ; and, bashful, and retiring, he could 
make no advances towards fellowship, in a place where he 
was an utter stranger. About this period, his father, 
justly alarmed for his health, took an opportunity of 
introducing him one evening to a convivial party, where a 
number of young men, and some professional singers, were 
present, in the hope, that by mingling in company, and 
getting an opportunity to display his musical powers, the 
gloom of mind under which he suffered, might gradually 
be dissipated. On that occasion Smith sang his first song 
in Paisley. It was one of Shield's, in the opera of ' The 
Farmer,' — ("Winds, softly tell my love;") and he sang it in 
a style so exquisitely sweet, that his hearers were charmed, 
and their hearty plaudits made him almost sink into the 
earth with confusion. In a short time the circle of his 
acquaintanceship increased, till it comprehended nearly all 
the professional and amateur musicians in the town and 

* Deploring beside an old loom, 
A weaver perplexed was laid, 
And while a bad web was his theme 
The breast-beam supported his head. 

What though I have patience to tie, 

Till their numbers my temples o'erspiead, 
Whene'er the smooth tread I apply, 

My shopmates deplore how I've sped. 
Ah ! Sandy, thy hopes are in vain ; 

Thy web and thy mounting resign ; 
Perhaps they may fall to a swain, 

Whose patience is greater than thine. 

Alexander Wilson's l J oems. 



xlvi MEMOIR OF SMITH. 

neighbourhood. Even then his talents were unequivocal, 
and his knowledge of music very respectable ; so much so, 
that his assistance was eagerly sought for at the concerts 
given in the district. 

To the list of his intimate acquaintances Smith soon 
added the name of Tannahill ; — but of this we have 
already spoken. It was in commemoration of a convivial 
meeting with Smith and other three kindred spirits that 
our poet carelessly threw into rhyme the song entitled 
• The Five Friends,' in which he sketched off the former 
in these lines ; — 

' There is Rab frae the south, wi' his fiddle and his flute, 
I could list to his sangs till the starns fa' out.' 

During TannahilPs life Smith composed original music for 
many of his songs, and various others he adapted and fitted 
with piano forte accompaniments. Through one of these 
('Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane,') the name of Smith first 
became known to the world as a musical composer. That 
beautiful production ran through many editions, and 
spread far and wide the fame of the friends whose names 
were so happily united. " The air before us," said a 
critic of the day when reviewing the fourth edition,* 
" certainly has no common claim to general admiration. 
The descant consists throughout of the most graceful and 
euphonious intervals, and the cadence at the words ' the 
flow'r o' Dumblane,' is remarkably beautiful and happy. 
It is singular that a similar fall of a 4th rising thence into 
the tonic chord is to be found at the commencement of a 
4 Kyrie' by the immortal Mozart, which it is very unlikely 
that our author should have known, being in manuscript, 
and very scarce The whole melody is con- 
tained in the space of eleven notes in diatonic scale, 
and proceeds in intervals, never exceeding a 4th, and 

* European Magazine for January, 1816. 



MEMOIR OF SMITH. xlvii 



abounding in 2ds and 3ds, the most proximate distances ; 
they are all managed with the utmost skill of simplicity, 
and we shall not easily find a more evident proof of the 
truth that Artis est celare artem." 

Having now become domesticated in Paisley, Smith was, 
in 1802, married to Mary MacNicol, daughter of a respect- 
able individual in the island of Arran. 

About the renewal of the war in 1S03, he became a 
member of the band of the second regiment of volunteers, 
which was better known in the district by the apparently 
un warlike epithet of * The Gentle Corps;'' we say appa- 
rently, for in truth the epithet was merely intended to 
express the rank in life of the most of the members, and 
did by no means imply any insinuation against their 
military hardihood. Ultimately, however, playing on wind 
instruments having proved prejudicial to his health, he 
was constrained to retire from the band and fall into the 
ranks. For this corps he composed a number of spirited 
marches and quick steps. A similar good office he per- 
formed about sixteen years afterwards for the Bugle band 
of the volunteer Rifle corps. 

He now commenced teaching music, — an employment 
that harmonized with his feelings, and allowed him leisure 
to study more perfectly the principles of the science he 
endeavoured to communicate to others. The first song he 
composed, (' O bonny was yon rosy brier.') was published 
anonymously, as was likewise the music which he about 
the same time set to the song written by Burns' oldest son, 
* Hae ye seen in the calm dewy morning T 

In 1807 he was appointed precentor in the Abbey 
Church. For a considerable time the sensitiveness of 
his mind rendered the appearing in that capacity before 
a whole congregation a source of painful uneasiness and 
restraint. "Custom, however, in a great measure reconciled 
him to this. A band was formed, and, under his judicious 
management, soft singing having been substituted for what 



xlviii MEMOIR OF SMITH. 

was harsh and noisy, — feeling and expression for drawling 
monotony, it soon became a choir surpassed by none in 
any of our Presbyterian churches. For this appointment 
he was chiefly indebted to the late Dr Boog, the venerable 
senior minister of the Abbey parish, who being himself 
passionately fond of music, soon discovered his merits, 
and became one of his earliest patrons and friends. By 
that excellent individual Smith was introduced to the late 
Dr Young, minister of Erskine, who was distinguished for 
his profound and scientific knowledge of harmony, and 
from whom he derived great assistance in the studies to 
which he earnestly and incessantly applied himself. 

The fame of Smith was now steadily on the increase. 
In 1810 he published ' Devotional Music, original and 
selected, arranged mostly in four parts, with a thorough 
bass for the organ or piano forte.' In this little work no 
less than twenty-one pieces are original, and several of 
these are of great excellence. — In 1817, a public perform- 
ance of sacred music took place under his superintendence, 
in the Abbey Church; and, encouraged by its success, 
another was given in the following year. Ttiese perform- 
ances, from their novelty in that quarter, and the skill and 
taste of the conductor, attracted much notice at the time^ 
and afforded high gratification to all who have a taste for 
the sublime music of devotion. — In 1819 he published 
■ Anthems in four vocal parts, with an accompaniment for 
the organ or piano forte, — the words selected from the 
prose version of the Book of Psalms,' — a splendid monu- 
ment of his genius, and one held in deserved esteem by 
every lover of sacred harmony. 

He next undertook his great work, * The Scottish 
Minstrel,' which was published in six volumes at intervals, 
from 1821 to 1824. This collection, which comprises 
every Scottish melody worth preserving, reflects the high- 
est credit on the judgment and industry of its editor. 
Each volume contains upwards of a hundred airs, and 



MEMOIR OF SMITH. xllX 

consequently the amount of the whole is much above six 
hundred. " Besides the songs familiar to every Cale- 
donian," it is said by him in the preface, " many hitherto 
unpublished will be found in this collection, which we 
doubt not will be highly relished by those who prefer the 
simple breathings of nature, to the laboured combinations 
of art. Not a ^ew of these wild flowers have been gather- 
ed from the peasantry of our country. Several of them, 
from their extreme simplicity, and the scale from which 
they are framed, must satisfy every one acquainted with 
the characteristics of Scottish music, that they are compo- 
sitions of Minstrels of a remote age. Many of the Jaco- 
bite songs and airs were taken from the lips of auld 
kimmers and carles, whose bluid yet warms at the remem- 
brance o' Prince Charlie." "According to the plan of this 
work," it is added, " several airs have been arranged to the 
simple stanzas of olden time, in preference to the more 
polished verse of modern days : for this we need make no 
apology to him who feels that 

* Each simple air his mother sung, 
Placed on her knee, when helpless, young, 
Still vibrates on his ear." 

The work, though professing to give only a selection from 
the known melodies of Scotland, or such as were recover- 
ed from tradition, we assuredly know, contains a great 
number of original pieces of the editor's own, or dim 
reminiscences of old tunes, which his ear had treasured up 
from childhood, and his fancy afterwards educed in more 
perfect, and more beautiful forms. These, however, he 
never acknowledged, nor perhaps would it be proper now 
to point them out. The volumes contain some verses 
by Tannahill, and other well known lyric poets, which 
were never before united to music. In the preparation of 
this work, the editor had the assistance of some ladies, 
whose peculiar province it was to exclude from the old 
songs whatever was objectionable on the score of propriety, 



1 MEMOIR OF SMITH. 



and to substitute words, and lines, and even verses, more 
in accordance with the refinement and delicacy of the age. 
In executing this duty they occasionally exhibited a degree 
of fastidiousness, against which Smith with all humility 
protested, but the fair despots were inexorable. We are 
thoroughly persuaded of the necessity which existed for 
this process of purification, but the fact should have been 
mentioned; for as several old songs are published in the 
book before us, the tame and badly fitting additions are not 
distinguished from what is ancient, and thus in progress of 
time may be mistaken for the veritable productions of our 
unpolished and plain spoken ancestors. 

During his residence in Paisley, Smith formed an 
intimate acquaintance with the late William Motherwell. 
To this, the disparity of their ages, (for Smith was nearly 
twenty years his senior,) formed no obstacle. Congeniality 
of mind, and zealous devotion to all that appertains to 
ballad lore, led to their intimacy, and Smith was one of 
the first to discover and appreciate the genius of his friend. 

Smith had now passed three-and-twenty years in Pais- 
ley, where both his parents died in a good old age. He 
had long had it in contemplation to remove to Edinburgh, 
as presenting a better field for his exertions ; and in the 
month of August, 1823, this was happily accomplished un- 
der the auspices of the late Dr Andrew Thomson, who was 
almost as much distinguished for his musical attainments, 
as for the ability wherewith he discharged the duties of 
his sacred office. Appointed to conduct the music in the 
Doctor's Church of Saint George's, Smith soon endeared 
himself as much to that congregation, as he had done to 
the one which he had just left. It was not till after his 
removal to the metropolis, that * The Scottish Minstrel' 
was completed. Encouraged by its success, he devoted 
his attention to the melodies of the sister island, and 'The 
Irish Minstrel' was the result. This is confined to a 
single volume, containing one hundred and three airs, and 



MEMOIR OF SMITH, 11 

corresponds in form, style of accompaniment, &c, to its 
predecessor, to which it may be considered not only as a 
fit companion, but as a necessary appendix ; for it is now 
generally admitted, that to determine with accuracy the 
birthplace of many of the best melodies to which both 
Scotch and Irish lay claim, is a hopeless attempt. 

The Scottish and Irish melodies possess so many ex- 
quisite beauties, that he who contributes by his genius, or 
labours, to make them more generally known, is entitled 
to share in the praises bestowed on those who confer bene- 
fits on mankind. Some portion of this praise was due to 
Smith, as the editor of these collections. Such music, 
even when published at a high price, is, by comparison, 
economical, for it is lasting — it is preserved : it is not like 
those songs, those cavatine, which, as he remarks in the 
preface to * The Irish Minstrel,' "through the force of novel- 
ty, or the peculiar powers of some favourite singer, are the 
rage of the day, and then laid aside to be remembered no 
more/* " Our old national melodies," he continues, " are 
imperishable plants, unfading evergreens, which have no 
more to dread from the capricious innovations of fashion, 
than the oak has to fear from the storm, which, instead of 
overturning, serves but to fix it more deeply in its native 
earth." 

Smith inherited from nature an exceedingly sensitive 
organization of mind. For many years too, this was 
increased by bodily ill health, — a bilious complaint im- 
bittered his days, and frequently affected his nervous 
system. In a letter to Motherwell, dated 24th May, 1825, 
we find him thus expressing himself: — " Believe me, my 
dear friend, that there is no person in this world that I 
have a greater regard for than yourself, or one whose 
abilities I prize so much, or whose friendly correspon- 
dence I should be the hundredth part so vexed to lose. 
Yet such has been the horrid lethargy that has crept over 
my faculties for soirje time past, that 1 have scarcely been 
e 2 



Hi MEMOIR OF SMITH. 



able to write a common card. Do bear with me if you 
can. 1 have been extremely delicate in my health. Indi- 
gestion, with all the gloomy train of nervous phantoms, 
has sorely beset me. I have lived a most regular life 
too ; and as to my favourite passion, music, I may indeed 
say with Moore. I live 

* Where lutes in the air are heard about, 
And voices are singing the whole day long, 

And every sigh the heart breathes out, 
Is turn'd as it leaves the lips to song.' 

Basking from morn till night in the * rays of beauty' and 

intelligence, and yet, when we meet, I perhaps will 

explain farther. Now to the subject of your highly enter- 
taining, and thrice welcome letter." .... 

A few months afterwards, he wrote to the same friend, 
who was then engaged in publishing in parts his * Min- 
strelsy, Ancient and Modern :' — 

1 ' Edinburgh, 28th October, 1825. 
" Dear Motherwell, — How fares it with the old ballads? 
Has the true and genuine edition of Childe Maurice made 
its appearance yet ? Do write me soon, and let me but 
be certain that you are living and well. For me, I am but 
newly recovered from a most distressing illness that had 
beset me for a long period. I have been eternally flying 
from place to place, to escape from the grim monster 
Death, who I verily believed at one time would have 
made, me his victim, but, I thank Heaven, lam now gradu- 
ally regaining my animal and spiritual strength. I went 
to York for the Festival, but I thought it was all over 
with me when I was in that ugly town. Of course I was 
not quite so much delighted with the music as I otherwise 
would have been ; still it had considerable effect in recruit- 
ing my jaded spirit, and in returning by sea from Scar- 
borough, I found great relief. I have since been in Fife- 
shire, enjoying myself among the country-seats of some of 



MEMOIR OF SMITH. HK 



my last winter pupils, where I was received with the great- 
est hospitality and attention. I have now begun my 
winter campaign in Edinburgh, in full hopes of established 
health. What a history have I given you ! — Does your 
Muse never pay you a visit ? I wish she would whisper 
something in the shape of a song or two into your lug, 
that you might do me the favour of sending me the result. 
I am quite sick of the mawkish stuff I have been doomed 
to arrange music to lately, and am wearying sadly for 
something of more nerve. By the by, I have just compos- 
ed music to a song that I think you would like, and as a 
small memorial of friendship, I intend to publish it soon, 
inscribed to you. — I am at present engaged in a work for 
the benefit of young ladies, and I hope, of myself, — an 
elementary book for singing with proper lessons, inter- 
spersed with songs on rather a novel plan. I am extreme- 
ly anxious to get some good original verses, * pure as pure 
can be,' and I would feel particularly proud were you to 
give me a specimen or two of your lyrics. I remain, &c." 

When he had nearly recovered from the severe indispo- 
sition which forms the burden of these letters, he relapsed 
into as bad a state as ever. To relieve his mind, and 
banish the disorder, he paid a visit to a worthy friend in 
Glasgow, — the late Andrew Henderson. On his return 
home he wrote to Motherwell: — 

"Edinburgh, 24th December, 1825. 
" Dear William, — When I wrote you last from Glasgow, 
with a small parcel, which I hope you received safe, I fear 
it was in a most melancholious vein. The truth is, I was 
excessively ill, and in utter despair of recovery, and since 
my return home I have been even much worse, but I am 
at present greatly better, and I hope, and trust, I shall yet 
weather the squall. ... I am very anxious to get on 
with my book, and as I am greatly in want of words for a 
sweet little Greek air, 1 will give you a verse that suits the 
eS 



iiv MEMOIR OF SMITH. 

measure. The accents must be kept exactly, or it will 
spoil the expression of the air. Two or three stanzas will 
be quite enough, and I think you might make it a Grecian 
subject : — 

" Ah ! dearest, wilt thou leave me, 

No, no, no. 
Thou think'st I do not prize thee, 

Ah ! 'tis so. 
Ah 1 then thou wrong'st rap : 

Dearly I love thee ; 
Try me, oh prove me, 

Do, love, do." 

These words are already attached to the air. I believe 
they are a translation from the Romance, but ' poor in- 
deed.' If you can please yourself with a stanza or two for 
it, I shall feel much obliged, as the air is a great favourite.* 
— I like your little Scottish song very much, and I will en- 
deavour to supply music as soon as my beclouded faculties 
begin to brighten again." 

His health being at length re-established, he resumed 
his labours. In a letter to the same correspondent, (25th 
March, 1826,) he says: — " I have been very busy for some 
time past, getting forward a performance of sacred music 
in St George's Church. The music was well performed — I 
think superior to any thing of the kind I have had, but 
the expenses ran away witli the profits. I do not wish the 
world to know this, as 1 never like to be pitied, and I put 
the best face on the matter I can, and comfort myself with 
the pleasing idea, that it will do better the next time V 9 

In 1826 he published the work alluded to in the letter 
of 28th October. This production, which evinced in no 
common degree his scientific knowledge, was entitled ' An 
Introduction to Singing, comprising various examples with 



* This, however, Motherwell could not do, and the desired 
stanzas were furnished by H. S. Riddell;— 'The day o'er Greece 
is dying.' 



MEMOIR OF SMITH. lv 

scales, exercises, and songs in all the major and minor keys 
in general use, selected, composed, and arranged progres- 
sively, with an accompaniment for the piano forte.' The 
plan of this publication is ingenious, and considerably dif- 
ferent from any other of the kind. 

This work was not well out of his hands, till his inde- 
fatigable mind projected another of greater magnitude, 
consisting of melodies of various nations, united to poetry, 
chiefly original. Writing to Motherwell, about this un- 
dertaking, on 22d July, 1826, he says: " By the by, I have 
one capital old English melody. Don't start — I do assure 
you this one is genuine. My mother and my grandmother 
used to sing it to one of Robin Hood's ballads, and it has 
never gone from my memory. A few days ago I commit- 
ted it to paper, and arranged it for the piano forte, and I 
am most anxious to get good words. They must be very 
cheerful. The air is one of those joyous strains that 
would make a man bound through the forest with a light 
heart: i will give you the beginning of the song it was 
sung to : 

■ When Phoebus had melted the 'cicles of ice, 

And likewise the mountains of snow, 
Bold Robin Hood, he, would frolicsome be, 

To go abroad with his long bow.' 

I would like a forester's song ; and as the measure is a 
very easy one, and the subject, I think, admirably adapted 
for your powers, I hope you will not disappoint me. 
Recollect long ballads do not answer my work. In sing- 
ing, the two last lines of the verse are repeated, so you 
may either form the stanza of four or six lines, as suits 
your taste. I believe four is the best." The poet 
addressed himself with right good will to the task here set 
to him, and produced ' The Forester's Carol.' 

The friends continued zealously to co-operate in the 
preparation of the projected publication. Into their coun- 
sels they received a valuable contributor, William Ken- 



lvi MEMOIR OF SMITH. 

nedy. Smith having written to Motherwell while the 
work was in progress, received from him the following 
characteristic answer : — 

" Paisley, 1st August, 1826. 
" My dear Smith, — Your last letter did not, like the for- 
mer, make any visit to our fashionable western bathing 
quarters, before it thought proper to unfold its message to 
me. In answer to your inquiry respecting Mr Kennedy's 
christian name, I may let you to wit, that, like mine own, 
it is no other than that favourite one of our old ballads, 
sweet William. In our last paper you have another piece 
from Kennedy's pen. In writing verses he is very in- 
dustrious, and in sooth it must be admitted he writes to 
good purpose. — I am glad to hear that you have determin- 
ed upon trying to make your present undertaking one 
which will pay its author; for it is a grievous, and in faith 
an unjust thing to one's own talents, to wear them away, 
and not from them derive some of the good fruits of this 
earth, while men of very inferior qualifications wax jolly 
and rich, by their worldly mode of managing the single tal- 
ent God hath intrusted to their stewardship.* I think the 
price per number you have fixed upon is a good medium 
one; just such as will not frighten subscribers by its mag- 
nitude, nor induce them to hang off. as being so low that 
nothing good can be expected at the price. Amongst 
your many friends here, I am certain that you can com- 
mand the sale of a very considerable number, and what I 
can do in procuring these, (though, by the by, I am none 
of the best in the line,) will be heartily at your service, . 

* To this half serious, half jocular advice, the letter-writer 
might with great propriety have added in the words of Burns ; 

" A nd may you better reck the rede, 
Than ever did th' adviser ;" 
for he himself was always remarkable for the disregard which ho 
showed for turning his own productions to a profitable account. 



MEMOIR OF SMITH. lvii 



. . . Publishing, as you propose to do, in numbers, 
will afford you time for providing, in all likelihood, excel- 
lent pieces to associate with your music, and this, I am 
sure, will be a pleasure to yourself, besides a gratification 
to your subscribers. The main thing, however, my dear 
Smith, is, to get your work to pay ; for as the world goes, 
that seems now to be the object of all literary enterprises. 
— The. title, I confess, is a serious and a puzzling thing to 
resolve on, and a title is as necessary to a book, as a head 
to a body, and much in truth does the success of a work 
often depend upon this otherwise minor point. At pre- 
sent my invention is run dry. I was almost thinking, that 
without any title other than part of the one you sent me, 
it might do well enough ; for instance," [Here he gave 
the proposed title.] " In this way the work would, when 
spoken of, or otherwise noticed, take the short and familiar 
title of * Smith's Melodies/ or, * Smith's Selection,' which 
would easily distinguish it, when referred to, from any of 
your prior publications. Of this, however, you are a 
better judge than I am, but if any thing else should strike 
me as a suitable title, or Mr Kennedy, (whom I have be- 
sought also to rack his invention on the subject,) it will 
be communicated. — Next thing, 'I guess,' to which I must 
look * pretty particularly sharp,' is to deluge you with 
reams of written paper, and verily though I lack the flow- 
ing pen, and fervent fancy, of some of your poetic corres- 
pondents in these parts, 1 must do my devoir in the good 
old cause. I fear, however, my Pegasus is one of the 
lumbering Flemish breed, not light enough to carry me 
gallantly through a tilt at song-writing ; but the dull jade 
must be spurred on and suppled in the joints. — And now 
finding myself at the foot of my third page, I kiss my 
hand, and bid thee farewell for the present. 

" Yours ever faithfully, 
" W. Motherwell. 
P. S. Pay no more postages, good Hal, an you love me." 



Iviii MEMOIR OF SMITH. 



In the autumn of this year, Smith passed about three 
weeks in London, where he was received in the most 
gratifying manner, by some of the first composers and 
singers of the day. Amidst the attractions of the metro- 
polis there occurred a striking instance of his anxiety not 
to let slip any opportunity to procure a new air, wtienever 
one worthy of preservation came within the compass of his 
ear. Writing to Motherwell after his return home, he 
says: "I have just finished the accompaniment to a 
remarkably fine Danish air, which happens most fortu- 
nately to be in the very spirit of your beautiful * Song of 
the Danish Sea-King.' You must know that I was taking 
an excursion lately in a wherry on the Thames, when my 
ears were assailed by the hoarse bawling of half a dozen 
sailors, in a vessel lying at anchor, singing a boisterous 
song, in an unknown tongue. I instantly desired the 
waterman to rest on his oars, when he informed me that it 
was a Danish vessel. The air pleased me, and I noted it 
at the moment." 

While in England, he, after the lapse of a quarter of 
a century, re-visited the place of his birth, where he 
remained for a week, enjoying the society of his early 
friends, and straying amongst the scenes where he passed 
his boyhood. 

During the ensuing winter his studies were interrupted, 
and his mind harassed by domestic affliction, under the 
pressure of which he wrote the following letter : — 

"Edinburgh, 1 9th November, 1826. 
" Dear Motherwell, — I would have written you long ere 
this, but have been prevented by distresses such as you 
jolly bachelors know little of. We poor married sinners 
must endure troubles, vexations, trials, and tribulations, 
that stare us in the face, grinning horribly, and ghastly, 
driving all romance from the mind ; and you must be 
aware, that' without a considerable portion of that de- 



MEMOIR OF SMITH. lix 



Jightful commodity, no good music can be engendered. 
Seriously, my dear friend, two of my family, my eldest 
daughter, and youngest son, are at this moment lying 
dangerously ill with typhus fever, i endeavour to flatter 
myself with the idea that 1 shall escape its contagion, but 
I have sometimes rather melancholy forebodings, and I am 
obliged to sing every day, professionally, and mask my face 
with smiles, to cover the throbbings of a seared and lonely 
heart. I am under the necessity of keeping the disorder 
secret, as, were it known, I should not be permitted to 
attend any of my pupils, and this being but the com- 
mencement of my season, it would infallibly ruin me. As 
tales fly quickly, I beg you will not mention the circum- 
stance, saving to Mr Kennedy. If I keep whole, I will 
send him a parcel by the end of this week, with some 
songs, and a proof copy of my * Select Melodies,' to each 
of you. I do not mean to bring it out, till I ascertain 
what subscribers can be collected, and I will trouble you 
at the same time with a paper or two, in case any of my 
old friends, in your most respectable of towns, should do 
me the honour to put their names to the work. They will 
then have an opportunity of seeing with their own eyes 
what it really is, in case they may not be fond to 'buy a 
pig in a poke. 7 — Tell our worthy friend Kennedy that I 
have arranged the air I noted from his voice when in 
Paisley, to the ■ rale Irish Melody,' and that I am quite 
delighted with its simplicity and genuine Irish feeling — (I 
mean both song and music.*) I trust that you will also 
see your 'Knight's Song' appear in my second part. I am 
highly pleased with it, and have already discovered some 
'cunning music' which answers the knight pretty well. 
When you come to Edinburgh, mayhap you will hear it 
chanted gaily to the harp, if not to the rebeck. . . . 



* This was the song written by Kennedy to an Irish air, 
1 Och ! while I live 111 ne'er forget.' 



lx MEMOIR OF SMITH. 



I have written in the present instance lightly, my dear 
friend, in order to drive away the foul fiend, and I wish to 
be as merry as I can, but a cloud has come over me, and I 
can bear up no longer. I have known enough of this cold 
world, and felt enough of its miseries, and I care little for 
this dreamy existence, saving to live for the few I esteem 
and love. Do forgive me, if you can, for this dash of 
gloom, and if all go well I will write you soon in a more 
sprightly measure. If not, some other minstrel must con- 
tinue my ' Melodies/ and I will sleep, reckless of the 
censure or applause of a world, which will soon forget 
that such an atom ever floated on its surface, as, my dear 
Motherwell, your affectionate friend, R. A. Smith." 

This letter does not indicate the whole extent of his 
affliction, for ultimately four of his children were laid up 
with fever, but happily they all recovered, and he himself 
escaped the contagion. 

In the end of 1827 appeared a portion of the work 
with which he had been for some time occupied, namelv, 
' Select Melodies, witli appropriate words, chiefly original, 
selected and arranged with symphonies and accompani- 
ments for the piano-forte.' For this collection more than 
half the countries of the globe were laid under contribu- 
tion, while amongst those by whom verses were supplied, 
are found the names of Mrs Hemans, the Ettrick Shep- 
herd, Kennedy, and Motherwell. The author intended to 
publish a second volume, materials for which he had in 
preparation, but this intention he was obliged to forego. 
Like its predecessors, the Scottish and Irish Minstrels, and 
the Introduction to Singing, this work contains many 
beautiful original compositions, a few only of which he 
acknowledged to be his own. It was received with the 
highest approbation. Among other testimonies to its 
merit, a letter was addressed to him by the celebrated 
Thomas Moore, bestowing great praise on one of these 
unacknowledged melodies, the paternity of which had been 



MEMOIR OF SMITH. lxi 

assigned to the Emerald Isle, but which was truly the 
musician's own composition.* 

To secular music, however, he did not exclusively con- 
fine his attention ; indeed, we believe that after his 
removal to Edinburgh, he was chiefly engrossed with that 
of devotion. In this branch of his professional career the 
following productions are to be classed : ' Sacred Music 
for the use of St George's Church, Edinburgh ;' * The 
Sacred Harmony of the Church of Scotland ;' * Sacred 
Music, consisting of tunes, sanctusses, doxologies, thanks- 
givings, &c, sung in St George's Church ;' and a number 
of anthems composed for the anniversary of George 
Heriot's Day. 

Thus far have we enumerated the various collected 
works, which his prolific genius and unwearied industry 
produced. As to his detached pieces, they are so numer- 
ous, and were published by so many different individuals, 
(not a few of them anonymously,) that to point them all 
out, would, at this distance of time, be an extremely diffi- 
cult task. 

Our friend's life was now drawing to a close. The 
reader has already been made aware of a distressing 
malady to which he was subject. This it was found im- 
possible to subdue, and it at length triumphed ovei a 
frame, that for years had been gradually debilitated by its 
almost incessant attacks. After being confined for about 
a fortnight, he calmly expired at Edinburgh, on the 3d of 
January, 1829, in the 49th year of his age, leaving a 
widow and five children. This event being quite unex- 
pected, except by his intimate friends, caused a deep sen- 
sation in that city, and in the West of Scotland, where he 
was so generally known. His funeral was very numer- 
ously attended, and in its progress many persons, unasked, 
joined, and followed the body to the tomb. 

* * The Midnight Wind,' — words by Motherwell. 



lxii MEMOIR OF SMITH. 

The following just and beautiful tribute to his memory 
was paid by the Session of the Church with which he was 
connected : — 

"Edinburgh, St George's Session House, 
" I lth January, 1829. 

" Which day, the Session being met and constituted ; 
the Rev. Doctor Thomson, Moderator. And considering 
that it having pleased God to remove by death Mr R. A. 
Smith, Precentor in St George's, the Session unanimously 
express the very sincere and deep regret which they feel 
in consequence of that melancholy event, — a regret which 
they are confident is shared with them by every member 
of the congregation. 

" The Session deem it right to record their unanimous 
testimony to the uncommon taste and skill with which Mr 
Smith conducted the music of the Church, — to the fidelity 
and attention which distinguished his official duty, — to the 
modesty of temper and correctness of manners, which they 
have had occasion to admire in all their intercourse with 
him, — and to the entire respectability of character which 
he uniformly maintained during the long period of his 
precentorship, and which secured for him universal respect 
and esteem. 

" And while they thus bear testimony to his invaluable 
services, and his personal worth, they would also most 
sincerely sympathise with the afflicted family whom Mr 
Smith has left behind him, to bewail a loss which to them 
must be irreparable, and earnestly supplicate for them the 
consolations of that gracious Being, who has declared him- 
self to be * a Father of the fatherless, and a Husband of 
the widow, in his holy habitation.'" 

The above was prepared by Dr Thomson, who was 
himself destined to be laid in ' the house appointed for all 
living,' within little more than a twelvemonth after the in- 
dividual whose loss he so feelingly deplored. 



MEMOIR OF SMITH. lxijl 

The publication of ' The Sacred Harmony,' which was 
brought out in parts, not having been completed at Mr 
Smith's death, the eminent divine just named, wrote for 
it a preface, from which we take this extract : — " It is 
impossible to conclude this preface, without adverting to 
the editor of this work; which we can do more freely, since 
he is beyond the reach of both censure and praise. While 
he lived, his modest and unassuming worth gained him the 
esteem of all to whom he was known ; and when he died, 
his death was universally and deeply lamented. We, for 
our part, felt it as the loss of a friend and a brother. He 
was fond to enthusiasm of sacred music. He entered fully 
and feelingly into its true character. And he contributed 
ably and largely to its stores, in the anthems, psalm-tunes, 
and other pieces which, from time to time, he composed 
and published. Much did he achieve in rescuing it from 
the barbarism and degeneracy into which it had fallen 
throughout the parishes of this country, by drawing the 
attention of influential people to its numerous defects, 
both as to the music performed, and the actual perform- 
ance of it, and by diffusing a better taste, and a greater 
love for it, than what had previously prevailed. And in 
the choirs which he successively had under his super- 
intendence in Paisley and in Edinburgh, he exhibited 
specimens, not only of what it ought to be, but of what it 
is capable of being made, when those who are concerned 
in its improvement unite in patronizing and promoting it." 

" Smith," says another competent judge,* " was a musician 
of sterling talent. His merits have been long recognised, 
but the extreme modesty of his character prevented them 
being so fully appreciated as they ought; and his labours 



* Mr George Hogarth, (author of a History of Music,) in 
an article inserted in the Edinburgh Evening Courant of 9th 
February, 1829. 

/2 



Ixiv MEMOIR OF SMITH. 

were only beginning to gain for him the reputation and 
emolument they deserved, when he was cut off by an 
untimely death. His compositions partake of the charac- 
ter of his mind ; they are tender, and generally tinged with 
melancholy; simple, and unpretending; and always grace- 
ful, and unaffectedly elegant. He had not the advantage 
of a regular musical education, or of having his taste 
formed upon the classic models of the art. But there was 
in his mind a native delicacy, and an intuitive soundness 
of judgment, which enabled him to shun the slightest 
tendency to vulgarity, and to make his productions always 
fulfil his object, whatever it was. His melodies are ex- 
pressive, and his harmonies clear and satisfactory. He 
had the admirable good sense to know how far he could 
safely penetrate into the depths of cou terpoint and modu- 
lation, without losing his way ; and accordingly his music 
is entirely free from that scientific pedantry, which forms 
the prevailing vice of the modern English school. Mr 
Smith has enriched the music of our own country with 
many melodies which have deservedly become national, 
and will probably descend, in that character, from genera- 
tion to generation, in Scotland. His sacred music is 
uniformly excellent, possessing, in a high degree, the sim- 
plicity of design, and solemnity of effect, which this species 
of music requires. His sacred compositions, being written 
for the Scottish Church, and without instrumental accom- 
paniment of any kind, are easily executed, and will un- 
doubtedly tend to heighten the character of our church 
music, as they are beginning to be generally used in those 
places of worship where vocal harmony only is admitted. 
His own personal exertions, as precentor of St George's 
Church, and the example which that Church has given, 
have already wrought a wonderful change in the musical 
part of our service." 

To estimates so correct, and so well expressed, there is 



MEMOIR OF SMITH. lxv 

little to add. — Smith's soul was wedded to nature. His taste 
never became so vitiated by art, as to sacrifice melody for 
intricate, lifeless harmonies. His feelings were strongly 
ri vetted to that description of music which beats in unison 
with the sympathies of our nature. He shrank from the 
practice of whatever was grating to the ear, and never 
tortured those of his hearers, by throwing into his compo- 
sitions a profusion of harsh dissonances, and contorted 
jarrings, as is done by some who affect to laugh at melody, 
and introduce passages into their compositions, which 
would require to be logically studied before it is possible 
to decide whether the melody is the more stiff, inelegant, 
and unlovely, or the harmony more uncouth, unearthly, 
and distracting, though, doubtless, both may be most pro- 
foundly, most darkly scientific. — As a Vocalist, he was 
highly finished. His voice was a light mellow tenor ; his 
intonation was perfect ; and his enunciation distinct and 
accurate. All his performances were alike free of guttural 
roughness, and the offensive nasal twang of some celebrat- 
ed singers, or the equally disagreeable sibillating hiss of 
others. When at his concerts he sung any of our plaintive 
national melodies, his sweet and silvery tones fell upon the 
ear with all those chaste and winning graces with which 
he was so liberally endowed, and operated with the charm 
of a spell, — 

" Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony." 

Constituted as his mind was, it was but natural that he 
should make excursions into the pleasant realm of poesy. 
Such of his verses as we have been able to recover, will be 
found appended to this Memoir. In all of them, some 
portion of the tenderness and simplicity which pervade 
his musical compositions will be discovered. 

In his manners, Smith was modest, retiring, and un- 
affected. His deportment was gentleman-like, and he 

/a 



Ixvi MEMOIR OF SMITH. 



possessed a large share of natural good breeding, which 
being polished and refined in the society with which his 
profession led him to mingle, rendered him an agreeable 
companion wherever he went ; so much so, that in his 
intercourse witli persons of the highest rank, he was often 
received as much in the quality of a friend, as a composer. 
The accent of his native country, though dashed with our 
Scottish idiom, he never lost. He had a keen perception of 
the ludicrous, and among his intimate associates occasionally 
displayed a peculiarly pleasing vein of humour. His per- 
son was tall and well formed. He had a fresh com- 
plexion, with hazel eyes, and brown hair. His counte- 
nance wore a pensive character, relieved by a lurking 
expression of humour about the region of the mouth. 

To his qualities in other and more important respects, 
we can bear ample testimony, for we knew him well. He 
was honourable, generous, disinterested, sincere, and in all 
the relations of life most exemplary. Possessed of quali- 
ties so eminently calculated to attract, and to preserve 
regard, there need be no wonder at the depth of the 
regret with which his many friends are actuated, whenever 
there is introduced the once familiar name of ' R. A. 
Smith.' 



VERSES BY SMITH. 



FLORA'S BOWER. 

Set to music by himself. 

Who is the sleeping youth that lies 

Within my greenwood bower ; 
The clusters of his yellow hair, 

All dripping with the show'r ? 
Oh ! by his bonnet's faded plume, 

His plaid so rudely torn, 
He seems some weary traveller, 

Deserted, and forlorn. 

But gaze upon that open brow, 

That graceful form survey ; 
Those looks, though gentle, do not seem 

Accustom'd to obey : 
And see, the wind has blown aside 

The sleeper's tatter'd vest ; 
And is not that a Royal Star 

Which glitters on his breast 

Yes, my beloved, forsaken, Prince, 
On female aid relies ; 



lxviii MEMOIR OF SMITH. 



Can death young Flora's courage daunt ? 
No, — for her King she dies ! 

Sleep on, my Prince, securely sleep, 

Let every doubt depart, 
The foe that would thy slumbers break 

Must pierce my faithful heart. 



These verses, we need scarcely mention, refer to the 
escape of Prince Charles Stewart, in which Flora MacDonald 
was so prominent, and so adventurous an agent. 



PARTING TOKENS. 

Set to mmic by himself. 

This pledge of affection, dear Ellen, receive 

From a youth who's devoted to thee ; 
And when on the relic you look, love, believe, 

Thy Edward still constant will be. 
The gift thou hast woven, I'll wear near my heart, 

And oft the dear token will prove 
A charm to dispel every gloom, and impart 

A joyful remembrance of love. 

Nay, weep not, sweet maid, though thy sailor, awhile 

Must roam o'er the boisterous main ; 
Fond hope kindly whispers that fortune will smile 

And we shall meet happy again : 
One embrace ere we part, — see, the vessel's unmoor d, 

The signal floats high in our view ; 
The last boat yet lingers to waft me on board, — 

Adieu, dearest Ellen, adieu ! 



MEMOIR OF 8MITH. 



TO A LADY, 

WITH A CROSS MADE OF A FRAGMENT OF ONE OF THE SHIPS 
OF THE SPANISH ARMADA, WHICH WAS WRECKED OFF THE 
ISLAND OF MULL, 1588. 

When o'er the dark Atlantic wave, 

The proud Armada held their way ; 
Flushed with the hopes a tyrant gave, 

They sought the spot where Britain lay. 

But see ! her lion-heart is bold, 

'Tis roused to meet the coming foe ; 
And armed with strength, she'll calm behold 

The gathering storm of death and wo. 

Spain's mighty bulwarks scattered fly, 

The wave has hid their giant form ; 
And while loud thunders rend the sky 

They haste — but cannot 'scape the storm. 

A relic of that fleet is mine ; — 

(Let haughty Spain lament her loss ;) 

Oh ! wear it on that breast of thine, 
Dear lady — wear this simple cross. 



ON ANOTHER PORTION OF THE SAME FRAGMENT. 

Part of a ship of the Spanish Armada, 
That on the seas made such a parade-a, 
When Britain's isle they sought to invade-a : 
But soon the gallant English Navy 
Made the haughty Dons to cry Peccavi, 
And sent them packing to old Davy. 



lxx MEMOIR OF SMITH. 



ON A RELIC OF THE CROCKSTON YEW-TREE. 

A relic of the ancient yew, 

That once by Crockston Castle grew, 

Whose spreading boughs and foliage green, 

Oft sheltered Scotland's beauteous Queen, 

When Fortune treacherous on her smiled, 

And Love the blissful hours beguiled : — 

Then, pilgrim, when this relic meets thine eye, 

Remember Mary's wrongs, and heave a pitying sigh. 



A TEAR. 

Set to music by himself. 

Adown the green dell, near the abbey's remains, 

All under the willow he lies ; 
There, by the pale moonlight, Maria complains, 

And sad to the night-breeze she sighs : 

" Oh ! it is not the dew-drop adorns the wild rose, 
On the brier-bound grave of my dear :* 

I could not but weep while I prayed his repose," — . 
And the bright trembling drop is — a tear. 



* Brier-bound grave. This alludes to a custom practised in 
some of the more remote villages in the south of England, of 
firmly lacing graves with a kind of basket-work of briers, 
brambles, &c, which, taking root, and being kept in order, cast 
even a cheerful look over the silent mansions of the dead. Chat> 
terton has noticed this custom in his tragical interlude, * Ella:' 

" Wythe mie honds I'll dentef the brieres 
Rounde his hallie corse to gre. J" 

f Dente, fasten. J Gre, grow. 



MEMOIR OF SMITH. lxxi 

THE MAY OF THE GLEN : 

A FRAGMENT. 
Set to music by himself. 

There was a May wonn'd in yon glen, 
With a heigh-ho, the green hollan tree ; 

And she had wooers, nine or ten, 
And the broom it bloom'd sae bonuie. 

But him she lo'ed did prove untrue, 
With a heigh-ho, the green hollan tree, 

Whilk caus'd the May fu' sair to rue, 
And the broom nae mair bloom'd bonnie. 



PART FIRST. 



SONGS. 



SONGS. 



' JESSIE, THE FLOW'R O' DUMBLANE. 

Set to music by R. A, Smith. 

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Beniomond, 

And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, 
While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin' 

To muse on sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. 
How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom, 

And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green ; 
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, 

Is lovely young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. 

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonny ; 

For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; 
And far be the villain, divested of feeling, 

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flow'r o' Dumblane. 
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, 

Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen ; 
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, 

Is charming young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. 

How lost were my days 'till I met wi' my Jessie, 
The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain, 

I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, 
'Till charm'd with sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. 
a2 



WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 



Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, 
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain; 

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, 
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. 

* Jessie the Flow'r o' Dumblane/ was first ushered into 
the world in 1808, and since that time no Scottish song has 
enjoyed among all classes greater popularity. For this it 
is indebted at once to the beauty of the words and the 
appropriateness of the music composed for them by the 
poet's friend. 

Smith says, " The third stanza was not written till several 
months after the others were finished, and, in my opinion, 
it would have been more to the author's credit had such an 
addition never been made. The language, I think, falls 
considerably below that of the two first verses. Surely the 
Promethean fire must have been burning but lownly when 
such common-place ideas could be coolly written after the 
song had been so finely wound up with the beautiful apos- 
trophe to the mavis, 

" Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening." 

" When I had composed the music, Jessie was introduced 
to the world with this clog hanging at her foot, much against 
my inclination and advice ; however, I feel confident that 
every singer of taste will discard it as a useless appendage." 
— * Harp of Renfrewshire,' p. xxxvi. In this opinion we 
concur. When viewed in connexion with the preceding 
stanzas the third does appear to be deficient in that callida 
junctura, which it would have manifested had the whole 
been " struck off at a heat." 

Smith also mentions, that " Many a bonnie lass, whose 
name chanced to be the same with that in the song, has 
been in her time the supposititious heroine of it, and got the 
blame of having 'cuist the glamour o'er him,' though with 
little reason, for I do sincerely believe the poet had no 
particular fair one in his eye at the time, and that Jessie 
was quite an imaginary personage." — Ibid. The same belief 
founded on the best authority — the poet's own assurance 
to them — is entertained by his surviving relations and 
friends ; but notwithstanding, a writer in the Musical Mag- 
azine for May 1835 gravely assures us, that he having had 



SONGS. 



occasion to visit Dumblane some sixteen or seventeen 
years previously, was there introduced to an elderly female 
who was represented to be the heroine of the song, but 
who formed the exact counterpart of the pure creature of 
the poet's imagination ; — and coachmen hesitate not to 
point out to travellers the very house in Dumblane in 
which " Jessie" first saw the light. The truth is, that 
Tannahill never was in Dumblane, and knew no person 
belonging to it ; and that the words were written to sup- 
plant the old doggerel song of the * Bob o' Dumblane,' — 
hence the title. As for the allusion to the going down of 
the sun 'o'er the lofty Benlomond,' the poet needed not to 
go to Dumblane to witness such a spectacle ; in his evening 
walks on the Braes o' Gleniffer, it formed the most im- 
posing object of the scene, — * towards heaven's descent 
sloping its west'ring wheel. , — Ed. 



LOUDOUN'S BONx\IE WOODS AND BRAES. 

Air — Lord Moira's Welcome to Scotland. 

Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes, 

I maun lea' them a,' lassie ; 
Wha can thole when Britain's faes 

Would gi'e Britons law, lassie ? 
Wha would shun the field of danger ? 
Wha frae fame would live a stranger ? 
Now when Freedom bids avenge her, 

Wha would shun her ca', lassie ? 
Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes 
Ha'e seen our happy bridal days, 
And gentle Hope shall soothe thy waes 

When I am far awa', lassie. 

" Hark ! the swelling bugle sings, 

Yielding joy to thee, laddie, 
But the dolefu' bugle brings 

Waefu' thoughts to me, laddie. 
a 3 



WORKS OP TANNAHILL. 



Lanely I may climb the mountain, 
Lanely stray beside the fountain, 
Still the weary moments countin', 

Far frae love, and thee, laddie. 
O'er the gory fields of war, 
When Vengeance drives his crimson car, 
Thou'lt maybe fa', frae me afar, 

And nane to close thy e'e, laddie." 

O resume thy wonted smile ! 

O suppress thy fears, lassie ! 
Glorious honour crowns the toil 

That the soldier shares, lassie ; 
Heav'n will shield thy faithful lover, 
'Till the vengeful strife is over, 
Then we'll meet, nae mair to sever, 

'Till the day we die, lassie ; 
'Midst our bonnie woods and braes 
We'll spend our peaceful, happy days, 
As blithe's yon lightsome lamb that plays 

On Loudoun's flow'ry lea, lassie. 

This very popular song was composed in honour of the 
late Earl Moira, (afterwards Marquis of Hastings,) and a 
Scottish Peeress, the Countess of Loudoun, on occasion of 
his lordship having been called abroad in the service of 
his country shortly after their nuptials. 

In a letter to his friend King, (Nov. 2d, 1807,) the author 
says, " I own I am somewhat half pleased with the above 
myself ; but that is always the case when a piece is newly 
finished, and it must lie past some time before we are 
capable of judging rightly how it may stand." — Ed. 



SONGS. 



THE LASS O' ARRANTEENIE. 
Set to music by Smith, 

Far lone amang the Highland hills, 

'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur, 
By rocky dens, and woody glens, 

With weary steps I wander. 
The langsome way, the darksome day, 

The mountain mist sae rainy, 
Are nought to me, when gaun to thee, 

Sweet lass o' Arranteenie. 

Yon mossy rose-bud down the howe, 

Just op'ning fresh and bonny, 
Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough, 

And's scarcely seen by ony ; 
Sae, sweet amidst her native hills. 

Obscurely blooms my Jeanie, 
Mair fair and gay than rosy May, 

The flow'r o' Arranteenie. 

Now, from tne mountain's lofty brow, 

I view the distant ocean, 
There Av'rice guides the bounding prow, 

Ambition courts promotion : — 
Let Fortune pour her golden store, 

Her laurel'd favours many ; 
Give me but this, my soul's first wish, 

The lass o' Arranteenie. 



Written in honour of a young lady, whom a friend oi 
the poet's, during an excursion to the Highlands, accident- 
ally met at Arranteenie, (properly Ardentinny,) a romantic 
and sequestered spot on the banks of Loch Long. — Ed. 



WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 



THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER. 

Air — Bonny Dundee. 
Arranged by Smith, 

Keen blaws the wind o'er the Braes o' Gleniffer, 

The auld castle's turrets are cover'd wi' snaw ; 
How chang'd frae the time when I met wi' my lover 

Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw : 
The wild flow'rs o' simmer were spread a' sae bonnie, 

The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree : 
But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie, 

And now it is winter wi' nature and me. 

Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheery, 

Then ilk thing around us was bonny and braw ; 
Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary, 

And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. 
The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie, 

They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee, 
And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie, — 

'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me. 

Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain, 

And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae, 
While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain, 

That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me. 
Tis no its loud roar on the wintry wind swellin', 

'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e, 
For, O gin I saw but my bonny Scotch callan, 

The dark days o' winter were simmer to me ! 

Concerning this beautiful song we cannot do better than 
quote the observations of Smith, evincing as they do that 
correct critical taste for which we have in the Memoir given 
him credit : — 



SONGS. 



" Songs possessing great poetical beauty do not always 
become favourites with the public. * Keen blaws the wind 
o'er the Braes o' Gleniffer,' is perhaps Tannahill's best 
lyrical effusion, yet it does not appear to be much known, 
at least it is but seldom sung. It was written for the old 
Scottish melody ' Bonnie Dundee/ but Burns had occupied 
the same ground before him. Mr Ross of Aberdeen com- 
posed a very pretty air for it ; yet, to use the phrase of a 
certain favourite vocal performer, * it did not hitJ — The 
language and imagery of this song appear to me beautiful 
and natural. There is an elegant simplicity in the couplet, 

' The wild flow'rs o' simmer were spread a sae bonnie. 
The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree ;' 

and the dreary appearance of the scenery in winter is strik- 
ingly portrayed in the second stanza : 

1 Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary, 
And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw.' 

Again, 

1 The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie, 
They shake the eauld drift frae their wings as they flee, 

And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie, 
'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me.' 

The birds shaking the cauld drift frae their wings is an 
idea not unworthy of Burns." — ' Harp of Renfrewshire,' p. 
xxxviii. — Ed. 



THE FLOWER OF LEVERN SIDE. 

Ye sunny braes that skirt the Clyde 

Wi' simmer flowers sae braw, 
There's ae sweet flower on Levern side, 

That's fairer than them a* : 
Yet aye it droops its head in wae, 
Regardless o' the sunny ray, 
And wastes its sweets frae day to day, 

Beside the lonely shaw ; 



10 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

Wi' leaves a' steep'd in sorrow's dew, 
Fause, cruel man, it seems to rue, 
Wha aft the sweetest flower will pu', 
Then rend its heart in twa. 

Thou bonny flow'r on Levern side, 

gin thou'lt be but mine ; 
I'll tend thee wi' a lover's pride, 

Wi' love that ne'er shall tine ; 
I'll take thee to my shelt'ring bower, 
And shield thee frae the beating shower, 
Unharm'd by ought thou'lt bloom secure 

Frae a' the blasts that blaw : 
Thy charms surpass the crimson dye 
That streaks the glowing western sky, 
But here, unshaded, soon thou'lt die, 

And lone will be thy fa'. 

The Levern (which must not be confounded with the 
Leven of Smollett's ode) is a rivulet that falls into the Cart 
near Crockston Castle. — Ed. 



LANGSYNE, BESIDE THE WOODLAND BURN. 

Set to Music by Smith. 

Langsyne, beside the woodland burn, 

Amang the broom sae yellow, 
I lean'd me 'neath the milk-white thorn, 

On nature's mossy pillow : 
A' 'round my seat the flowers were strew'd, 
That frae the wild wood I had pu'd, 
To weave mysel' a summer snood, 

To pleasure my dear fellow. 



SONGS. 1 1 



I twin'd the woodbine round the rose, 

Its richer hues to mellow, 
Green sprigs of fragrant birk I chose, 

To busk the sedge sae yellow : 
The craw-flower blue, and meadow-pink, 
I wove in primrose-braided link, 
But little, little did I think 

I should have wove the willow. 

My bonnie lad was forc'd afar, 

Tost on the raging billow ; 
Perhaps he's fa'en in bloody war, 

Or wreck'd on rocky shallow : 
Yet aye I hope for his return, 
As round our wonted haunts I mourn, 
And often by the woodland burn 

I pu' the weeping willow. 



YON BURN SIDE. 

Air — The Brier bush — second set. 

Arranged by Smith. 

We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side, 
Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side ; 

Though the broomy knowes be green, 

And there we may be seen, 
Yet we'll meet — we'll meet at e'en, down by yon burn side. 

I'll lead you to the birken bower, on yon burn side, 

Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side ; 

There the busy prying eye, 

Ne'er disturbs the lovers' joy, 
While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side. 



12 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Awa', ye rude unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side, — 
Those fairy-scenes are no' for you, by yon burn side ; 
There fancy smooths her theme, 
By the sweetly murm'ring stream, 
And the rock-lodg'd echoes skim, down by yon burn side. 

Now the planting taps are ting'd wi' goud, on yon burn-side, 
And gloaming draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side; — 

Far frae the noisy scene, 

I'll through the fields alane, 
There we'll meet— my ain dear Jean! down by yon burn side. 



THROUGH 

CROCKSTON CASTLE'S LANELY WA'S. 

^r-— Crockston Castle. 
Arranged by Smith. 

Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa's, 

The wintry wind howls wild and dreary ; 
Though mirk the cheerful e'ening fa's, 

Yet I ha'e vow'd to meet my Mary. 
Yes, Mary, though the winds should rave 

Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee, 
The darkest stormy night I'd brave, 

For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. 

Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep, 

Rude Cartha* pours in boundless measure, 

But I will ford the whirling deep, 

That roars between me and my treasure. 

* Tannahill here, and Burns in his song of * Where Cart rins 
rowin' to the sea,' describe the appearance which this usually 



SONGS. 13 



Yes, Mary, though the torrent rave 
With jealous spite to keep me frae thee, 

Its deepest flood I'd bauldly brave, 
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. 

The watch-dog's howling loads the blast, 

And makes the nightly wand'rer eerie, 
But when the lonesome way is past, 

I'll to this bosom clasp my Mary. 
Yes, Mary, though stern Winter rave, 

With a' his storms, to keep me frae thee, 
The wildest dreary night I'd brave, 

For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. 

So early as the twelfth century the baronies of Crock- 
ston, Darnley and Neilston, belonged to a family of the 
name of Croc, from whom they passed by marriage, in the 
following century, to a younger brother of the house of 
Stewart, ancestor of Lord Darnley, husband of Queen Mary. 
At Crockston Castle, according to a questionable tradition, 
that princess occasionally resided ; and near it she awaited 
the issue of the battle of Langside which was fought in the 
neighbourhood, and ended in the defeat of her adherents 
and in her flight to England. This ancient edifice now 
belongs to Sir John Maxwell, who takes great care to pre- 
vent the farther dilapidation of" the ruins grey." 



sluggish stream presents during 'a speat.' Grahame, the author 
of * The Sabbath/ who in childhood lived amongst the 

rura, quae Liris quieta 

Mordet aqua, taciturnus amnis, 

exhibits it in a more pleasing aspect : 

Forth from my low- roofed home I wandered blithe 
Down to thy side, sweet Cart, where cross the stream 
A range of stones, below a shallow ford, 
Stood in the place of the now spanning arch. 

The Birds of Scotland, p. 27. 



Ed. 



14 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

" Hard by the Castle," (said Crawfurd, the historian of 
the county, who wrote in 1710) "is to be seen that noble 
monument the yew-tree, called the Tree of Crockston ; of 
so large a trunk, and well spread in its branches, that 'tis 
seen at several miles distance from the ground where it 
stands." From its traditional connexion with the histo- 
ry of " the most unhappy of an unhappy race," this vener- 
able tree was regarded with great interest. The withered 
trunk was removed only about twenty years ago. Its 
memory is preserved in relics, such as quaighs and snuff- 
boxes. — Ed. 



I'LL HIE ME TO THE SHIELING HILL. 

Air— Gilly Callum. 

I'll hie me to the shieling hill, 
And bide amang the braes, Callum, 
Ere I gang to Crochan mill, 
Til live on hips and slaes, Callum. 
Wealthy pride but ill can hide 
. Your runkl'd mizzly shins, Callum, 
Lyart pow, as white's the tow, 
And beard as rough's the whins, Callum. 

Wily woman aft deceives ! 
Sae ye'll think, I ween, Callum, 
Trees may keep their wither'd leaves," 
'Till ance they get the green, Callum. 
Blithe young Donald's won my heart, 
Has my willing vow, Callum, 
Now, for a* your couthy art, 
I winna marry you, Callum, 



SONGS. 1 



THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER* 

Air — The Three Carls o' Buchanan. 

Let us go, lassie, go, 

To the braes o' Balquhither, 
Where the blae-berries grow 

'Mang the bonny Highland heather ; 
Where the deer and the rae, 

Lightly bounding together, 
Sport the lang simmer day 

On the braes o* Balquhither. 

I will twine thee a Dowei, 

By the clear siller fountain, 
And I'll cover it o'er 

Wr the flowers o' the mountain ; 
I will range through the wilds, 

And the deep glens sae dreary, 
And return wi' their spoils, 

To the bower o' my deary. 

When the rude wintry win* 

Idly raves round our dwelling, 
And the roar of the linn 

On the night breeze is swelling, 
So merrily we'll sing, 

As the storm rattles o'er us, 
'Till the dear shieling ring 

Wi' the light lilting chorus. 

Now the simmer is in prime, 
Wi' the flowers richly blooming, 

# Pronounced Bal whither, — quh expressing the sound of wh 
iu the Scottish language. — Ed. 

b 2 



16 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

And the wild mountain thyme 
A' the moorlands perfuming ; 

To our dear native scenes 
Let us journey together, 

Where glad innocence reigns 
'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. 



O LASSIE, WILL YE TAK' A MAN? 

Air — Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

O lassie, will ye tak' a man, 

Rich in housing, gear, and Ian' ? 

De'il tak' the cash ! that I should ban, 

Nae mair I'll be the slave o't, 
I'll buy you claise to busk you braw, 
A riding pony, pad and a' ; 
On fashion's tap we'll drive awa', 

Whip, spur, and a' the lave o't. 

O poortith is a wintry day, 
Cheerless, blirtie, cauld, and blae ; 
But basking under Fortune's ray, 

There's joy whate'er ye'd have o't 
Then gie's your hand ye'll be my wife, 
I'll make you happy a' your life, 
We'll row in love and siller rife, 

Till death wind up the lave o't. 



AN ANACREONTIC. 

Fill, fill the merry bowl, 

Drown corrosive care and sorrow 
Why, why clog the soul, 

By caring for to-morrow ? 



SONGS. 1 7 



Fill your glasses, toast your lasses, 

Blythe Anacreon bids you live, 
Love, with friendship, far surpasses 

All the pleasures life can give. 

CHORUS. 

Ring, ring th' enlivening bell, 

The merry dirge of care and sorrow ; 

Why leave them life to tell 
Their heavy tales to-morrow ? 

Come join the social glee, 

Give the reins to festive pleasure, 
While fancy, light, and free, 

Dances to the measure : 
• Love and wit, with all the graces, 

Revel round in fairy ring ; 
Smiling joy adorns our faces, 

While with jocund hearts we sing. 

CHORUS. 

Now, since our cares are drown'd, 
Spite of what the sages tell us, 

Hoary Time, in all his round, 
Ne'er saw such happy fellows. 

Smith says in a manuscript note now before us — (< Tan- 
nahill wrote the above at my particular desire for a favourite 
air I gave him, which I thought would make a good bac- 
chanalian." — Ed. 



V. 



OUR BONNY SCOTCH LADS. 

Set to Music by Smith. 

Our bonny Scotch lads, in their green tartan plaids, 
Their blue-belted bonnets, and feathers sae braw, 
B3 



18 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 



Rank'd up on the green were fair to be seen, 
Bat my bonnie young laddie was fairest of a\ 

His cheeks were as red as the sweet heather-bell. 
Or the red western cloud looking down on the snaw, 

His lang yellow hair o'er his braid shoulders fell, 
And the een o' the lasses were fix'd on him a\ 

My heart sunk wi' wae on the wearifu' day, 

When torn frae my bosom they march'd him awa' ,* 
He bade me farewell, he cried " O be leal !" 

And his red cheeks were wet wi' the tears that did fa'. 
Ah ! Harry, my love, though thou ne'er shouldst return, 

Till life's latest hour I thy absence will mourn, 
And memory shall fade, like the leaf on the tree, 

Ere my heart spare ae thought on anither but thee. 



OCH HEY! JOHNNIE, LAD 

Och hey ! Johnnie, lad, 

Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been ; 
Och hey ! Johnnie, lad, 

Ye didna keep your tryst yestreen. 
I waited lang beside the wood, 

Sae wae and weary a' my lane ; 
Och hey ! Johnnie, lad, 

Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been. 

I looked by the whinny knowe, 

I looked by the firs sae green, 
I looked owre the spunkie-howe,* 

And aye I thought ye would ha'e been. 

* Dr Jamieson, in the Supplement to his Scottish Dictionary, 
has stated as one of the meanings of the adjective ' spunkie,' 
that it is " an epithet applied to a place supposed to be haunted, 



SONGS. 1 9 



The ne'er a supper cross'd my craig, 
The ne'er a sleep has clos'd my een ; 

Och hey ! Johnnie, lad, 

Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e heen. 

Gin ye were waiting by the wood, 

Then I was waiting by the thorn ; 
I thought it was the place we set, 

And waited maist till dawning morn. 
Sae be na vex'd, my bonny lassie, 

Let my waiting stand for thine ; 
We'll awa' to Craigton-shaw, 

And seek the joys we tint yestreen. 



COMPANION OF MY YOUTHFUL SPORTS. 
Air — Gilderoy. '■«L N 

Companion of my youthful sports, 

From love and friendship torn, 
A victim to the pride of courts, 

Thy early death I mourn. 
Unshrouded on a foreign shore, 

Thou'rt mould'ring in the clay, 
While here thy weeping friends deplore 

Corunna's fatal day. 

How glows the youthful warrior's mind 
With thoughts of laurels won, 

from the frequent appearance of the ignis fatuus ;" in support of 
which he quotes the above passage as his only authority. But, 
with great deference, the venerable lexicographer has misappre- 
hended the meaning of the poet, who plainly used ' spunkie- 
howe' as a compound noun, to denote the ' howe of the spun- 
kie,' — in other words, the * Will o' the wisp hollow.' — Ed. 



20 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

But ruthless Ruin lurks behind, 

" And marks him for her own." 
How soon the meteor ray is shed, — 

" That lures him to his doom," 
And dark Oblivion veils his head 

In everlasting gloom. 

Written on the death of a friend who fell at the battle 
of Corunna. — Ed. 



FLY WE TO SOME DESERT ISLE. 
Gaelic Air* 

Fly we to some desert isle, 

There we'll pass our days together, 

Shun the world's derisive smile, 
Wand'ring tenants of the heather : 

Shelter'd in some lonely glen, 

Far remov'd from mortal ken, 

Forget the selfish ways o' men, 
Nor feel a wish beyond each other. 

Though my friends deride me still, 

Jamie, I'll disown thee never ; 
Let them scorn me as they will, 

I'll be thine — and thine for ever. 
What are a' my kin to me, 
A' their pride o' pedigree ? 
What were life, if wanting thee, 

And what were death, if we maun sever ! 



SONGS. 21 



SAIR I RUE THE WITLESS WISH. 

Arranged by Smith. 

O sair I rue the witless wish, 

That gar'd me gang wi' you at e'en, 
And sair t rite the birken bush, 

That screen'd us wi' its leaves sae green. 
And though ye vow'd ye wad be mine, 

The tear o' grief aye dims my e'e, 
For O ! I'm fear'd that I may tine 

The love that ye ha'e promis'd me ! 

While ithers seek their e'ening sports, 

1 wander, dowie, a' my lane, 
For when I join their glad resorts, 

Their daffing gi'es me meikle pain. 
Alas ! it was na' sae shortsyne, 

When a* my nights were spent wi' glee ; 
But, O ! I'm fear'd that I may tine 

The love that ye ha'e promis'd me. 

Dear lassie, keep thy heart aboon, 

For I ha'e wair'd my winter's fee, 
I've coft a bonnie silken gown, 

To be a bridal gift for thee. 
And sooner shall the hills fa' down, 

And mountain-high shall stand the sea , 
Ere I'd accept a gowden crown, 

To change that love I bear for thee. 



KITTY TYRRELL. 

Irish Air. 



The breeze of the night fans the dark mountain's breast, 
And the light bounding deer have all sunk to their rest , 



22 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

The big sullen waves lash the lough's rocky shore, 
And the lone drowsy fisherman nods o'er his oar. 
Though pathless the moor, and though starless the skies, 
The star of my heart is my Kitty's bright eyes, 
And joyful I hie over glen, brake, and fell, 
In secret to meet my sweet Kitty Tyrrell. 

Ah ! long we have lov'd in her fathers despite, 
And oft we have met at the dead hour of night, 
When hard-hearted Vigilance, sunk in repose, 
Gave Love one sweet hour its fond tale to disclose ; 
These moments of transport, to me, oh how dear ! 
And the fate that would part us, alas, how severe ! 
Although the rude storm rise with merciless swell, 
This night I shall meet my sweet Kitty TyrrelL 

" Ah ! turn, hapless youth ! see the dark cloud of death 
" Comes rolling in gloom o'er the wild haunted heath ; 
" Deep groans the scath'd oak on the glen's cliffy brow, 
" And the sound of the torrent seems heavy with woe." 
Away, foolish seer, with thy fancies so wild, 
Go tell thy weak dreams to some credulous child ; 
Love guides my light steps through the lone dreary dell, 
And I fly to the arms of sweet Kitty Tyrrell. 

As it is fashionable to furnish various readings, we will 
here subjoin one taken from a copy of this song in the 
author's hand-writing, by which it appears that he at first 
gave it a melancholy termination, in the following lines 
which were afterwards supplanted by the last four above 
printed : 

O fearless he goes — see he fords the deep burn, 
He goes — but alas I. he shall never return ; 

The ruthless assassin unseen marks him well, 

And he falls for his love to sweet Kitty Tyrrell. — Ed. 



SONGS. 23 



ELLEN MORE. 

Air — Mary ? s Dream. 

The sun had kiss'd green Erin's waves, 

The dark blue mountains tower'd between, 
Mild evening's dews refresh'd the leaves, 

The moon unclouded rose serene ; 
When Ellen wander'd forth, unseen, 

All lone her sorrows to deplore, — • 
False was her lover, false her friend, 

And false was hope to Ellen More. 

Young Henry was fair Ellen's love, 

Young Emma to her heart was dear, 
No weal nor woe did Ellen prove, 

But Emma ever seem'd to share ; 
Yet envious, still she spread the wile, 

That sullied Ellen's virtues o'er, 
Her faithless Henry spurn'd the while 

His fair, his faithful Ellen More. 

She wander'd down Loch-Mary side, 

Where oft at ev'ning hour she stole, 
To meet her love with secret pride, 

Now deepest anguish wrung her soul. 
O'ercome with grief, she sought the steep 

Where Yarrow falls with sullen roar, 
O Pity, veil thy eyes and weep ! 

A bleeding corpse lies Ellen More. 

The sun may shine on Yarrow braes, 
And woo the mountain flow'rs to bloom. 

But never can his golden rays 

Awake the flower in yonder tomb : 



24 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 



There oft young Henry strays forlorn, 
When moonlight gilds the abbey tower, 

There oft from eve 'till breezy morn, 
He weeps his faithful Ellen More. 



DIRGE. 

7&XTTEN ON READING AN ACCOUNT OF ROBERT BURNS' FUNERAL. 

Let grief for ever cloud the day, 
That saw our Bard borne to the clay ; 
Let joy be banish'd every eye, 
And Nature, weeping, seem to cry — 

" He's gone, he's gone ! he's frae us torn ! 

" The ae best fellow e'er was born." 

Let Sol resign his wonted powers, 
Let chilling north winds blast the flowers ; 
That each may droop its withering head, 
And seem to mourn our Poet dead.* 
" He's gone, he's gone ! &c. 

Let shepherds, from the mountain's steep, 
Look down on widow'd Nith, and weep, 
Let rustic swains their labours leave, 
And sighing, murmur o'er his grave — 
" He's gone, he's gone ! &c. 

Let bonny Doon, and winding Ayr 
Their bushy banks in anguish tear, 
While many a tributary stream, 
Pours down its griefs to swell the theme*— 
" He's gone, he's gone ! &c. 

* This verse, which has not been inserted in any former edi- 
tion, is copied from the author's manuscript. — Ed. 



songs. 2b 



All dismal let the night descend, 
Let whirling storms the forests rend, 
Let furious tempests sweep the sky, 
And dreary howling caverns cry — 

" He's gone, he's gone ! he's frae us torn ! 

" The ae best fellow e'er was born !" 

Writing to Clark about this dirge on 31 August, 1805, 
the author says, " I am much obliged to you for fitting me 
with an air suitable to the stanza I formerly sent you, and 
though it answers the words as well as ever tune did any, 
yet I am doubtful that the verses will not do to sing at all, 
owing to the repetition of the same two lines at the hinder- 
end of every stanza, which two lines being repeated twice 
(to the music) will be intolerably insipid. However, I will 
give you the whole of it, so that you may judge." — Ed. 



COGGIE, THOU HEALS ME. 

Dorothy sits i' the cauld ingle neuk ; 

Her red rosy neb's like a labster tae, 
Wi' girning, her mou's like the gab o' the fleuk, 

Wi' smoking, her teeth's like the jet o' the slae. 
And aye she sings "Weel's me !" aye she sings " Weel's me' 
Coggie, thou heals me, coggie, thou heals me ; 
Aye my best friend, when there's ony thing ails me : 
Ne'er shall we part till the day that I die." 

Dorothy ance was a weel tocher'd lass. 

Had charms like her neighbours, and lovers anew, 

But she spited them sae, wi' her pride and her sauce, 
They left her for thirty lang simmers to rue. 

Then aye she sang " Wae's me !" aye she sang "Waes me! 

O I'll turn crazy, O I'll turn crazy ! 

Naething in a' the wide world can ease me, 

De'il take the wooers — O what shall I do !" 



26 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Dorothy, dozen'd wi' living her lane, 

Pu'd at her rock, wi' the tear in her e'e, 
She thought on the braw merry days that were gane, 

And caft a wee coggie for company. 
Now aye she sings " Weel's me ! " aye she sings " Weel's me! 
Coggie, thou heals me, coggie, thou heals me ; 
Aye my best friend, when there's ony thing- ails me : 
Ne'er shall we part till the day that I die.'' 



GREEN INISMORE. 
Air — The Leitrim County. 

How light is my heart as I journey along, 

Now my perilous service is o'er ! 
I think on sweet home, and I carol a song 

In remembrance of her I adore ; 
How sad was the hour when I bade her adieu ! 
Her tears spoke her grief, though her words were but few, 
She hung on my bosom, and sigh'd, O be true, 

When you're far from the green Inismore ! 

Ah ! Eveleen, my love ! hadst thou seen this fond breast, 

How, at parting, it bled to its core, 
Thou hadst there seen thine image so deeply imprest, 

That thou ne'er couldst have doubted me more. 
For my king and my country undaunted I fought, 
And braved all the hardships of war as I ought, 
But the day never rose saw thee strange to my thought, 

Since I left thee in green Inismore. 

Ye dear native mountains that tower on my view, 

What joys to my mind ye restore ! 
The past happy scenes of my life ye renew, 

And ye ne'er seem'd so charming before. 



SONGS. 27 



In the rapture of fancy already I spy 
My kindred and friends crowding round me with joy ; 
But my Eveleen, sweet girl, there's a far dearer tie. 
Binds this heart to the green Inismore. 



THE WORN SOLDIER. 

The Queensferry boatie rows light, 

And light is the heart that it bears, 
For it brings the poor soldier safe back to his home 

From many long toilsome years. 

How sweet are his green native hills, 
As they smile to the beams of the west ; 

But sweeter by far is the sunshine of hope, 
That gladdens the soldier's breast. 

I can well mark the tears of his joy, 

As the wave-beaten pier he ascends, 
For already, in fancy, he enters his home, 

'Midst the greetings of tender friends. 

But fled are his visions of bliss, 

All his transports but rose to deceive, 

He found the dear cottage a tenantless waste, 
And his kindred all sunk to the grave.— 

Lend a sigh to the soldier's grief, 

For now he is helpless and poor, 
And, forc'd to solicit a slender relief, 

He wanders from door to door. 

To him let your answers be mild, 

And, O to the sufferer be kind ! 
For the look of indifT'rence, the frown of disdain, 

Bear hard on a generous mind. 
c 2 



28 WORKS OF TANNAHILL, 

FROM THE RUDE BUSTLING CAMP. 

Air — My laddie is gane. 

From the rude bustling camp, to the calm rural plain, 
I'm come, my dear Jeanie, to bless thee again ; 
Still burning for honour our warriors may roam, 
But the laurel I wish'd for I've won it at home : 
All the glories of conquest no joy could impart, 
When far from the kind little girl of my heart ; 
Now, safely return'd, I will leave thee no more, 
But love my dear Jeanie till life's latest hour. 

The sweets of retirement how pleasing to me ! 
Possessing all worth, my dear Jeanie, in thee ! 
Our flocks early bleating will make us to joy, 
And our raptures exceed the warm tints in the sky ; 
In sweet rural pastimes our days still will glide, 
Till Time, looking back, will admire at* his speed ; 
Still blooming in virtue, though youth then be o'er, 
I'll love my dear Jeanie till life's latest hour. 



THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW. 

Arranged by Smith. 

The cold wind blows 

O'er the drifted snows, 
Loud howls the rain-lash*d naked wood ; 

Weary I stray, 

On my lonesome way, 
And my heart is faint for want of food : 

* * Admire at,' that is, { wonder at/ according to a rather an- 
tiquated meaning of the words. — Ed. 



SONGS. 29 



Pity a wretch left all forlorn, 
On life's wide wintry waste to mourn ; 
The gloom of night fast veils the sky, 
And pleads for your humanity. 

On valour's bed 

My Henry died, 
In the cheerless desert is his tomb : 

Now lost to joy 

"With my little boy, 
In woe and want I wander home. 
O never, never will you miss 
The boon bestow'd on deep distress, 
For dear to Heav'n is the glist'ning eye, 
That beams benign humanity. 



THE WANDERING BARD. 

Arranged by Smith, 

Chill the wintry winds were blowing, 
Foul the murky night was snowing, 
Through the storm the minstrel, bowing, 

Sought the inn on yonder moor. 
All within was warm and cheery, 
All without was cold and dreary, 
There the wand'rer, old and wear}', 

Thought to pass the night secure. 

Softly rose his mournful ditty, 
Suiting to his tale of pity ; 
But the master, scoffing, witty, 

Check'd his strain with scornful jeer : 
" Hoary vagrant, frequent comer, 
" Canst thou guide thy gains of summer ?- 
*' No, thou old intruding thrummer, 

*' Thou canst have no lodging here," 
c3 



30 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

Slow the bard departed, sighing ; 
Wounded worth forbade replying ; 
One last feeble effort trying, 

Faint he sunk no more to rise. 
Through his harp the breeze sharp ringing, 
Wild his dying dirge was singing, 
While his soul, from insult springing, 

Sought its mansion in the skies. 

Now, though wintry winds be blowing, 
Night be foul, with raining, snowing, 
Still the trav'ller, that way going, 

Shuns the inn upon the moor 
Though within 'tis warm and cheery, 
Though without 'tis cold and dreary, 
Still he minds the minstrel weary, 

Spurn'd from that unfriendly door. 



THE DEAR HIGHLAND LADDIE, O. 

Gaelic Air — Mor nian a Ghibarlan. 

Blithe was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, O, 
Happy were the days when we herded thegither, O, 
Sweet were the hours when he row'd me in his plaidie, O, 
And vow'd to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O. 

But, ah ! waes me ! wi' their sodgering sae gaudy, O, 
The laird's wys'd awa' my braw Highland laddie, O, 
Misty are the glens and the dark hills sae cloudy, O, 
That aye seem'd sae blythe wi' my dear Highland laddie, O. 

The blae-berry banks now are lonesome and dreary, O, 
Muddy are the streams that gush'd down sae clearly, O, 
Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, O, 
The wild melting strains o' my dear Highland laddie, O. 



SONGS. 31 



He pu'd me the crawberry, ripe frae the boggy fen, 
He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae the foggy glen, 
He pu'd me the row'n frae the wild steep sae giddy, O, 
Sae loving and kind was my dear Highland laddie, O. 

Fareweel, my ewes, and fareweel, my doggie, O, 
Fareweel, ye knowes, now sae cheerless and scroggie, O, 
Fareweel, Glenfeoch, my mammy and my daddie, 0, 
I will leave you a' for my dear Highland laddie, 0. 



POOR TOM, FARE THEE WELL. 

Arranged by Smith, 

'Mongst life's many cares, there is none so provoking, 

As when a brave seaman, disabled and old, 
Must crouch to the worthless, and stand the rude mocking 

Of those who have nought they can boast but their gold ; 
Poor Tom, once so high on the list of deserving, 

By captain and crew, none so dearly were prized, 
At home now laid up, worn with many years serving, 

Poor Tom takes his sup, and poor Tom is despised. 

Yet, Care thrown a-lee, see old Tom in his glory, 

Plac'd snug with a shipmate, whose life once he saved. 
Recounting the feats of some bold naval story, 

The battles they fought, and the storms they had braved. 
In his country's defence he has dared every danger, 

His valorous deeds he might boast undisguised, 
Yet home-hearted landsmen hold Tom as a stranger, 

Poor Tom loves his sup, and poor Tom is despised. 

Myself too am old, rather rusted for duty, 
Yet still I'll prefer the wide ocean to roam, 

I'd join some bold corsair, and live upon booty, 
Before I'd be jibed by these sucklings at home. 



32 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Poor Tom, fare thee well ! for, by heaven, 'tis provoking, 
When thus a brave seaman, disabled and old, 

Must crouch to the worthless, and stand the rude mocking, 
Of those who have nought they can boast but their gold. 



DESPAIRING MARY. 

Set to music by Smith, 

H Mary, why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow ? 

See, a' around you the flowers sweetly blaw ; 
Blithe sets the sun o'er the wild cliffs of Jura, 

Blithe sings the mavis in ilka green shaw." 
" How can this heart ever mair think of pleasure, 

Summer may smile, but delight I ha'e nane ; 
Cauld in the grave lies my heart's only treasure, 

Nature seems dead since my Jamie is gane. 

" This 'kerchief he gave me, a true lover's token, 

Dear, dear to me was the gift for his sake ! 
I wear't near my heart, but this poor heart is broken, 

Hope died with Jamie, and left it to break : 
Sighing for him, I lie down in the e'ening, 

Sighing for him, I awake in the morn ; 
Spent are my days a' in secret repining, 

Peace to this bosom can never return. 

" Oft have we wander'd in sweetest retirement, 

Telling our loves 'neath the moon's silent beam, 
Sweet were our meetings of tender endearment, 

But fled are these joys like a fleet-passing dream. 
Cruel Remembrance, ah ! why wilt thou wreck me, 

Brooding o'er joys that for ever are flown ! 
Cruel Remembrance, in pity forsake me, 

Flee to some bosom where grief is unknown !" 



SONGS. 33 

Smith says, " The music published with this song was 
originally composed for other words, but Tannahill took a 
fancy to the air, and immediately wrote * Despairing Mary' 
for it, which, being the better song, was adopted. The 
opening of the melody is too like the first part of ' The 
Flowers o' the Forest,' to lay claim to great originality, 
but after it was composed I never could please myself with 
any alteration I attempted to make, so it remains as it was 
first sketched." — c Harp of Renfrewshire,' p. xxxvi. — Ed. 



FRAGMENT 

OF A SCOTTISH BALLAD. 

Air — Fingal's Lamentation. 

" Wild drives the bitter northern blast, 

Fierce whirling wide the crispy snaw, 
Young lassie, turn your wand'ring steps, 

For e'ening's gloom begins to fa' : 
I'll take ye to my father's ha', 

And shield you from the wintry air, 
For, wand'ring through the drifting snaw, 

I fear ye'll sink to rise nae mair." 

" Ah ! gentle lady, airt my way 

Across this langsome, lonely moor, 
For he wha's dearest to my heart, 

Now waits me on the western shore : 
With morn he spreads his outward sail, 

This night I vow'd to meet him there, 
To take ae secret fond fareweel, 

We maybe part to meet nae mair." 

" Dear lassie, turn — 'twill be your dead ! 

The deary waste lies far and wide ; 
Abide till morn, and then ye'll ha'e 

My father's herd-boy for your guide." 



34 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

" No, lady, — no ! I maun na' turn, 
Impatient Love now chides my stay; 

Yon rising moon, with kindly beam, 
Will light me on my weary way.'* 

vF Tp vp vP 7p vP ^P 

Ah ! Donald, wherefore bounds thy heart I 

Why beams with joy thy wishful e'e ? 
Yon's but thy true love's fleeting form, 

Thy true love mair thou'lt never see. 
Deep in the hollow glen she lies, 

Amang the snaw, beneath the tree ; 
She soundly sleeps in death's cauld arms, 

A victim to her love for thee. 



NOW WINTER, WF HIS CLOUDY BROW. 

Air — Forneth House. 

Now Winter, wi' his cloudy brow, 

Is far ayont yon mountains, 
And Spring beholds her azure sky 

Reflected in the fountains : 
Now, on the budding slaethorn bank, 

She spreads her early blossom, 
And wooes the mirly-breasted birds 

To nestle in her bosom. 

But lately a' was clad wi' snaw, 

Sae darksome, dull, and dreary, 
Now laverocks sing to hail the spring, 

And Nature all is cheery. 
Then let us leave the town, my love, 

And seek our country dwelling, 
Where waving woods, and spreading flow'rs, 

On ev'ry side are smiling. 



SONGS. 


35 


We'll tread again the daisied green, 




Where first your beauty mov'd me ; 




We'll trace again the woodland scene, 




Where first ye own'd ye lov'd me : 




We soon will view the roses blaw 




In a' the charms of fancy, 




For doubly dear these pleasures a', 




When shar'd with thee, my Nancy. 




GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA\ 




Air — Lord Balgonie's Favourite. 




Arranged by Smith. 




Gloomy winter's now awa', 




Saft the westlan' breezes blaw, 




'Mang the birks o' Stanley shaw 




The mavis sings fu' cheery, O ; 




Sweet the crawflower's early bell 




Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell, 




Blooming like thy bonnie sel', 




My young, my artless deary, 0, 




Come, my lassie, let us stray 




O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae, 




Blithely spend the gowden day 




'Midst joys that never weary, 0. 




Towering o'er the Newton woods, 




Lav'rocks fan the snaw-white clouds, 




Siller saughs, wi' downy buds, 




Adorn the banks sae briery, ; 




Round the sylvan fairy nooks, 




Feathery breckans fringe the rocks, 




'Neath tne brae the burnie jouks, 




And ilka thing is cheery, i 


i 



„ Ob WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Trees may bud, and birds may sing, 
Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, 
Joy to me they canna' bring, 
Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O. 

This melody was published in Nathaniel Gow's collec- 
tion, under the name of" Lord Balgonie's Favourite," as a 
very ancient air. Afterwards, however, it was claimed by 
Alexander Campbell, who asserts, in Albyn's Anthology, 
vol. i., that it was originally composed by him as a strath- 
spey. 

The song, " Gloomy Winter's now Awa\" was writ- 
ten by Tannahill for Smith, who adapted the melody to 
the words, and published it in the key of C Minor about 
the year 1808. It became very popular, and was the reign- 
ing favourite in Edinburgh for a considerable time. Twenty 
years afterwards, when the song was, comparatively speak- 
ing, forgotten, its popularity was renewed from the inimi- 
table manner of Miss E. Paton's singing ; and Smith was 
induced to publish a new edition with an entirely new 
arrangement, and a third lower, and more suitable for the 
generality of voices. — Ed. 



WHILE THE GREY-PINION'D LARK. 

While the grey-pinion'd lark early mounts to the skies, 

And cheerily hails the sweet dawn, 
And the sun, newly ris'n, sheds the mist from his eyes, 

And smiles over mountain and lawn ; 
Delighted I stray by the fairy-wood side, 

Where the dew-drops the crowflowers adorn, 
And Nature, array'd in her midsummer's pride, 

Sweetly smiles to the smile ot the morn. 

Ye dark waving plantings, ye green shady bowers, 

Your charms ever varying I view ; 
My soul's dearest transports, my happiest hours, 

Have owed half their pleasures to you. 



SONGS. 37 



Sweet Ferguslie, hail ! thou'rt the dear sacred grove, 
Where first my young Muse spread her wing ; 

Here Nature first waked me to rapture and love, 
And taught me her beauties to sing. 



WHEN JOHN AND I WERE MARRIED. 

Air — Clean Pease-strae. 

When John and I were married, 

Our hau'ding was but sma\ 
For my minnie, canker't carline, 

Wou'd gi'e us nocht ava' ; 
I wair't my fee wi' canny care, 

As far as it would gae, 
But weel I wat our bridal bed 

Was clean pease-strae. 

Wi' working late and early, 

We're come to what you see, 
For fortune thrave aneath our hands, 

Sae eident aye were we. 
The lowe of love made labour light, 

I'm sure ye'll find it sae, 
When kind ye cuddle down, at e'en, 

'Mang clean pease-strae. 

The rose blooms gay on cairny brae, 

As weel's in birken shaw, 
And love will lowe in cottage low, 

As weel's in lofty ha'. 
Sae, lassie, take the lad ye like, 

Whate'er your minnie say, 
Tho' ye should make your bridal bed 

Of clean pease-strae. 



38 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

MINE AIN DEAR SOMEBODY. 

Air — Were I obliged to beg. 

When gloaming treads the heels of day, 
And birds sit cow'ring on the spray, 
Alang the flowery hedge I stray 
To meet mine ain dear somebody. 

The scented brier, the fragrant bean. 
The clover bloom, the dewy green, 
A' charm me, as I rove at e'en, 
To meet mine ain dear somebody. 

Let warriors prize the hero's name, 
Let mad Ambition tow'r for fame, 
I'm happier in my lowly hame, 
Obscurely blest with somebody. 



THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN. 

Air — The Shepherd's Son. 

The midges dance aboon the burn, 

The dews begin to fa', 
The pairtricks down the rushy holm, 

Set up their e'ening ca\ 
Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang 

Rings through the briery shaw, 
While flitting, gay, the swallows play 

Around the castle wa'. 



SONGS. 39 



Beneath the golden gloamin' sky, 

The mavis mends her lay, 
The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, 

To charm the ling'ring day ; 
While weary yeldrins seem to wail 

Their little nestlings torn, 
The merry wren, frae den to den, 

Gaes jinking through the thorn. 

The roses fauld their silken leaves, 

The foxglove shuts its bell, 
The honeysuckle and the birk 

Spread fragrance through the dell.— 
Let others crowd the giddy court 

Of mirth and revelry, 
The simple joys that Nature yields 

Are dearer far to me. 

Although this has never acquired much popularity as 
a song, we think that for trueness to nature, and beauty of 
expression, it must be ranked as one of the happiest of 
the author's efforts.— Ed. 



WHY UNITE TO BANISH CARE? 

Air — Let us Taste the sparkling Wine. 

Why unite to banish Care? 
Let him come our joys to share ; 
Doubly blest our cup shall flow, 
When it soothes a brother's woe ; 
'Twas for this the pow'rs divine 
Crown'd our board with generous wine. 

Far be hence the sordid elf 
Who'd claim enjoyment for himself; 
Come, the hardy seaman, lame, 
The gallant soldier, robb'd of fame ; — 
d 2 



40 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

Welcome all who bear the woes 
Of various kind that merit knows. 
Patriot heroes, doom'd to sigh, 
Idle 'neath corruption's eye ; 
Honest tradesmen, credit-worn, 
Pining under fortune's scorn ; 
Wanting wealth, or lacking fame, 
Welcome all that worth can claim. 

Come, the hoary-headed sage, 
Suff'ring more from want than age ; 
Come, the proud, though needy bard, 
Starving 'midst a world's regard : 
Welcome, welcome, one and all 
That feel on this unfeeling ball. 

Many an expedient has been resorted to by the poets 
for the disposal of so gloomy a personage as Care. Burns 
gained the admiration of all jolly topers by making him, 

mad to see a man sae happy, 

E'en drown himsel' amang the nappy. 

Our good-natured bard, by inviting him to participate in 
the festivities, surely evinced a more hospitable disposition. 
A melancholy interest is attached to this little effusion : 
it was Tannahill's last production. This we state on the 
authority of Smith ; * Harp/ p. xl. The two last stanzas 
have not appeared in any former edition. They are taken 
from a manuscript copy furnished by the author to his 
friend. — Ed. 



RAB RORYSON'S BONNET. 

Air — The auld Wife o' the Glen. 

Ye'll a' hae heard tell o' Rab Roryson's bonnet, 
Ye'll a' hae heard tell o' Rab Roryson's bonnet ; 
'Twas no for itsel', 'twas the head that was in it, 
Gar'd a' bodies talk o' Rab Roryson's bonnet. 



SONGS. 41 



This bonnet, that theekit his wonderfu' head, 
Was his shelter in winter, in summer his shade ; 
And, at kirk or at market, or bridals, I ween, 
A braw gawcier bonnet there never was seen. 

Wi' a round rosy tap, like a muckle blackboyd, 
It was slouch'd just a kenning on either hand side ; 
Somemaintain'd it was black, somemaintain'd it was blue, 
It had something o' baith as a body may trow. 

But, in sooth, I assure you, for ought that I saw, 
Still his bonnet had naething uncommon ava ; 
Tho' the haill parish talk'd o' Rab Roryson's bonnet, 
'Twas a' for the marvellous head that was in it. 

That head — let it rest — it is now in the mools, 
Though in life a' the warld beside it were fools ; 
Yet o' what kind o' wisdom his head was possest, 
Nanee'er kentbut himseP, sae there's nane that willmiss't. 

There are some still in life wha eternally blame — 
Wha on buts and on ifs rear their fabric o' fame i 
Unto such I inscribe this most elegant sonnet — 
Sae let them be crowned wi' Rab Roryson's bonnet !* 



BARROCHAN JEAN. 
Air — Johnnie M'Gill. 

'Tis ha'ena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean ! 

And ha'ena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean ! 
How death and starvation came o'er the haill nation, 

She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky een. 

* The concluding stanza, which will not be found in former 
editions, is taken from a letter to King, 9th May, 1809. — Ed. 

d 3 



42 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

The lads and the lasses were deeing in dizzens, 
The tane kill'd wi' love, and the tither wi' spleen ; 

The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing, — 
A' wark was forgotten for Barrochan Jean ! 

Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth, 
Sic coming and ganging there never was seen ; 

The comers were cheery, the gangers were blearie, 
Despairing, or hoping for Barrochan Jean. 

The carlines at hame were a' girning and graning, 
The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en, 

They gat naething for crowdy but runts boil'd to sowdie, 
For naething gat growing for Barrochan Jean. 

The doctors declar'd it was past their descriving, 
The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin, 

But they looket sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae, 
I was sure they were deeing for Barrochan Jean. 

The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking, 
Yet a' wadna slocken the drouth i' their skin ; 

A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke-backs, ' 
E'en the winds were a' sighing, " Sweet Barrochan Jean P 

The timmer ran done wi' the making o' coffins, 
Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean, 

Dead lovers were packit like herring in barrels, 
Sic thousands were deeing for Barrochan Jean. 

But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glen-Brodie, 
The grass owre their graffs is now bonnie and green, 

He sta' the proud heart of our wanton young lady, 
And spoil'd a' the charm o' her twa pawky een. 

Of the origin of this amusing extravaganza, we find 
the following account in a letter to Barr, 24th December, 



SONGS. 43 



1809 : u You will no doubt have frequently observed how 
much some old people are given to magnify the occurren- 
ces of their young days. ' Barrochan Jean,' was written 
on hearing an old grannie, in Lochwinnoch parish, relating 
a story something similar to the subject of the song : per- 
haps I have heightened her colouring a little." — Ed. 



AH! SHEELAH, THOU'RT MY DARLING. 

Air — Nancy Vernon. 

Ah ! Sheelah, thou'rt my darling, 

The golden image of my heart ; 
How cheerless seems this morning, — 

It brings the hour when we must part ; 
Though doom'd to cross the ocean, 

And face the proud insulting foe, 
Thou hast my soul's devotion, 

My heart is thine where'er I go ; 
Ah ! Sheelah, thou'rt my darling, 

My heart is thine where'er I go. 

When toss'd upon the billow, 

And angry tempests round me blow, 
Let not the gloomy willow 

O'ershade thy lovely lily brow : 
But mind the seaman's story, 

Sweet William and his charming Sue ; 
I'll soon return with glory, 

And like sweet William wed thee too : 
Ah ! Sheelah, thou'rt my darling, 

My heart is thine where'er I go. 

Think on our days of pleasure, 

While wand'ring by the Shannon side, 

When summer days gave leisure 
To stray amidst their flow'ry pride : 



44 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

And while thy faithful lover 
Is far upon the stormy main, 

Think, when the wars are over, 

These golden days shall come again ; 

Ah ! Sheelah, thou'rt my darling, 
These golden days shall come again. 

Farewell, ye lofty mountains, 

Your flow'ry wilds we wont to rove ; 
Ye woody glens and fountains, 

The dear retreats of mutual love. — 
Alas ! we now must sever — 

O ! Sheelah, to thy vows be true ! 
My heart is thine for ever — 

One fond embrace, and then adieu ; 
Ah ! Sheelah, thou'rt my darling, 

One fond embrace and then adieu. 



MOLLY, MY DEAR. 

^r-— Miss Molly. 

The harvest is o'er, and the lads are so funny, 
Their hearts lin'd with love, and their pockets with money ; 
From morning to night 'tis, "My jewel, my honey/' 
" Och, go to the North with me, Molly, my dear !" 

Young Dermot holds on with his sweet botheration, 
And swears there is only one flow'r in the nation ; 
s< Thou rose of the Shannon, thou pink of creation, 
" Och, go to the North with me, Molly, my dear ! 

" The sun courts thy smiles as he sinks in the ocean, 
" The moon to thy charms veils her face in devotion ; 
" And I, my poor self, och ! so rich is my notion, 

" Would pay down the world for sweet Molly, my dear." 



SONGS. 45 



Though Thady can match all the lads with his blarney, 
And sings me love songs of the Lakes of Killarney, 
In worth for my Dermot he's twenty miles journey, 
My heart bids me tell him I'll ne'er be his dear. 



ONE NIGHT IN MY YOUTH. 

Air — The Lass that wears Green. 

One night in my youth as I rov'd with my merry pipe, 
List'ning the echoes that rung to the tune, 

I met with Kitty More, with her two lips so cherry-ripe, 
Phelim, says she, give us Ellen Aroon. 

Dear Kitty, says I, thou'rt so charmingly free ! 

Now, if thou wilt deign thy sweet voice to the measure, 
'Twill make all the echoes run giddy with pleasure, 
For none in fair Erin can sing it like thee. 

My chanter I plied, with my heart beating gaily, 
I pip'd up the strain, while so sweetly she sung, 

The soft melting melody fill'd all the valley, 
The green woods around us in harmony rung, 

Methought that she verily charm'd up the moon ! 
And now as I wander in village or city, 
When good people call for some favourite ditty, 
I cheer my old heart with sweet Ellen Aroon. 



YE FRIENDLY STARS THAT RULE THE NIGHT 

Air — Gamby Ora. 

Ye friendly stars that rule the night, 

And hail my glad returning, 
Ye never shone so sweetly bright, 

Since gay St. Patrick's morning. 



46 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

My life hung heavy on my mind. 
Despair sat brooding o'er me ; 

Now all my cares are far behind, 
And joy is full before me. 

CHORUS. 

Gamby ora ! Gamby ora !* 
How my heart approves me! 

Gamby ora ! Gamby ora ! 

Cathleen owns she loves me ! 

Were all the flow'ry pastures mine, 

That deck fair Limerick county, 
That wealth, dear Cathleen, should be thine, 

And all should share our bounty. 
But Fortune's gifts I value not, 

Nor Grandeur's highest station, 
I would not change my happy lot 

For all the Irish nation. 

CHORUS. 

Gamby ora ! Gamby ora ! 

How my heart approves me, 
Gamby ora ! Gamby ora ! 

Cathleen owns she loves me ! 



PEGGY O'RAFFERTY. 

Air— Paddy O'Rafferty. 

O could I fly like the green-coated fairy, 
I'd skip o'er the ocean to dear Tipperary, 
Where all the young fellows are blithsome and merry, 
While here I lament my sweet Peggy O'Rafferty ; 

* Gamby ora, literally, Gabhaidh mi oran, means " I will 
sing." — Ed. 



SONGS. 47 



How could I bear in my bosom to leave her ! 
In absence I think her more lovely than ever ; 
With thoughts of her beauty I'm all in a fever, 
Since others may woo my sweet Peggy O'Rafferty. 

Scotland, thy lasses are modest and bonny, 
But here every Jenny has got her own Johnny, 
And though I might call them my jewel and honey, 

My heart is at home witli sweet Peggy O'Rafferty ; 
Wistful I think on my dear native mountains, 
Their green shady glens, and their crystalline fountains, 
And ceaseless I heave the deep sigh of repentance, 

That ever I left my sweet Peggy O'Rafferty. 

Fortune, 'twas thine all the light foolish notion, 
That led me to rove o'er the wide-rolling ocean, 
But what now to me all thy hopes of promotion, 

Since I am so far from sweet Peggy O'Rafferty : 
Grant me as many thirteens as will carry me 
Down through the country, and over the ferry, 
I'll hie me straight home into dear Tipperary, 

And never more leave my sweet Peggy O'Rafferty. 

In a letter to Mr George Thomson, with this song, and 
the two which immediately precede it, dated 3d July, 1809, 
Tannahill says, " I have gleaned the three preceding airs 
for you. You may depend on their being genuine Hiber- 
nians. I had them taken down from the voice. The songs 
usually sung to them are as low stuff as can be. I am 
firmly of opinion, that the very popular air of * Peggy 
O'Rafferty' is worthy of being adopted into the singing 
class, provided a good song can be had for it. I shall be 
glad to know your mind of it, and how my verses please 
you. * The Lass that wears Green' is surely a fine little 
air. My song to it, and the one following, are just warm 
from the Parnassian mint. I cannot as yet guess how they 
stand."-— Ed. 



48 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 



THE IRISH FARMER. 

Air — Sir John Scott's Favourite. 

Dear Judy, when first we got married, 

Our fortune indeed was but small, 
For save the light hearts that we carried, 

Our riches were nothing at all. 
I sung while I rear d up the cabin, 

Ye pow'rs, give me vigour and health ! 
And a truce to all sighing and sobbing, 

For love is Pat Mulligan's wealth. 

Through summer and winter so dreary 

I cheerily toil'd on the farm, 
Nor ever once dream'd growing weary, 

For love gave my labour its charm. 
And now, though 'tis weak to be vaunly, 

Yet here let us gratefully own, 
We live amidst pleasure and plenty, 

As happy's the king on the throne. 

We've Murdoch, and Patrick, and Connor, 

As fine little lads as you'll see, 
And Kitty, sweet girl, 'pon my honour, 

She's just the dear picture of thee. 
Though some folks may still under-rate us, 

Ah ! why should we mind them a fig, 
We've a large swinging field of potatoes, 

A good drimindu * and a pig. 



* Drimindu, or more properly drimindubh, (black back) a 
name for the cow. — Ed. 



SONGS. 49 



* Dear Judy, I've taken a thinking, 

The children their letters must learn, 
And we'll send for old father O'Jenkin 

To teach them three months in the barn ; 
For learning's the way to promotion, 

'Tis culture brings fruit from the sod, 
And books give a fellow a notion 

How matters are doing abroad. 

Though father neglected my reading, 

Kind soul ! sure his spirit's in rest, 
For the very first part of his breeding, 

Was still to relieve the distrest ; 
And late, when the traveler benighted, 

Besought hospitality's claim, 
We lodg'd him 'till morning, delighted, 

Because 'twas a lesson to them. 

The man that wont feel for another, 

Is just like a colt on the moor, 
He lives without knowing a brother 

To frighten bad luck from his door. 
But he that's kind-hearted and steady, 

Though wintry misfortune should come, 
He'll still find some friend who is ready, 

To scare the old witch from his home. 

Success to Ould Ireland for ever ! 

'Tis just the dear land to my mind, 
Her lads are warm-hearted and clever, 

Her girls are all handsome and kind ; 



* In former editions this and the following stanzas were printed 
as a separate song, under the title of "Dear Judy," contrary to 
the intention of the author, as appears from his manuscript now 
before us. — Ed. 



50 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

And he that her name would bespatter, 

By wishing the French safely o'er, 
May the de'il blow him over the water, 

And make him cook frogs for the core ! 

In a letter to Mr G. Thomson concerning this song, 3d 
July, 1809, the author says, " The air designed for it is 
unquestionably Irish, and I believe some publisher on this 
side the water has given it the name of Sir John Scott's 
favourite." — Ed. 



ADIEU! YE CHEERFUL NATIVE PLAINS. 

Air — The green woods of Treugh. 

Adieu ! ye cheerful native plains, 

Dungeon glooms receive me, 
Nought, alas ! for me remains, 
Of all the joys ye gave me — 
All are flown ! 
Banish'd from thy shores, sweet Erin, 
I, through life, must toil, despairing, 
Lost and unknown. 

Howl, ye winds, around my cell, 

Nothing now can wound me, 
Mingling with your dreary swell, 
Prison groans surround me, — 
Bodings wild — 
Treachery, thy ruthless doing 
Long I'll mourn in hopeless ruin, 
Lost and exil'd. 



SONGS. 51 



THE DIRGE OF CAROLAN. 

Irish Air — The fair Maid of Wicklow. 

* Ye maids of green Erin, why sigh ye so sad ? 
The summer is smiling, all nature is glad." 
' The summer may smile, and the shamrock may bloom, 
But the pride of green Erin lies cold in the tomb ; 
And his merits demand all the tears that we shed, 
Though they ne'er can awaken the slumbering dead, 
Yet still they shall flow — for dear Carolan we mourn, 
For the soul of sweet music now sleeps in his urn. 

Ye bards of our isle, join our grief with your songs, 

For the deepest regret to his mem'ry belongs ; 

In our cabins and fields, on our mountains and plains, 

How oft have we sung to his sweet melting strains ! 

Ah ! these strains shall survive, long as time they shall last, 

Yet they now but remind us of joys that are past ; 

And our days, crown'd with pleasure, can never return, 

For the soul of sweet music now sleeps in his urn. 

Yes, thou pride of green Erin, thy honours thou'lt have, 
Seven days, seven nights, we shall weep round thy grave ! 
And thy harp, that so oft to our ditties has rung, 
To the lorn-sighing breeze o'er thy grave shall be hung ! 
And the song shall ascend, thy bright worth to proclaim, 
That thy shade may rejoice in the voice of thy fame : 
But our days, crown'd with pleasure, can never return, 
For the soul of sweet music now sleeps in thine urn." 

" Carolan is the most celebrated of all the modem Irish 
bards. He was born in the village of Nobber, county of 
Westmeath, in 1670, and died in 1739. He never regretted 
the loss of his sight, but used gaily to say, * My eyes are 
only transported into my ears.' It has been said of his 
music, by O'Connor, the celebrated historian, who knew 
him intimately, that so happy, so elevated, was he in some 
E 2 



Ibz 



52 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

of his compositions, he attained the approbation of that 
great master, Geminiani, who never saw him. His execu- 
tion, too, on the harp, was rapid and impressive, far beyond 
that of all the professional competitors of the age in which 
he lived. The charms of women, the pleasures of con- 
viviality, and the power of poesy and music, were at once 
his theme and inspiration ; and his life was an illustration 
of his theory ; for, until his last ardour was chilled by death, 
he loved, drank, and sang. While in the fervour of com- 
position, he was constantly heard to pass sentence on his 
own effusions, as they arose on his harp, or breathed from 
his lips ; blaming and praising, with equal vehemence, the 
unsuccessful effort and felicitous attempt. He was the 
welcome guest of every house, from the peasant to the 
prince, but, in the true wandering spirit of his profession, 
he neyer stayed to exhaust that welcome. He lived and 
died poor." 

This note is taken from " The Wild Irish Girl," by Miss 
Owenson, (now Lady Morgan). — Ed. 



O ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE? 

Air — Sleepy Maggie. 

CHORUS. 

" O are ye sleeping, Maggie ? 
O are ye sleeping, Maggie ? 
Let me in, for loud the linn 
Is roaring o'er the warlock- craigie : 
Mirk and rainy is the night, 

No a starn in a' the carry,* 
Lightnings gleam athwart the lift, 
And winds drive wi' winter's fury. 

O are ye sleeping, Maggie ? &c. 

* " The carry" means, in Scotland, the direction in which the 
clouds are carried by the wind. In the above passage the author, 
J iy a poetical license, uses it to denote the firmament or sky. 
—Ed. 



SONGS. 53 



Fearful soughs the bour-tree bank, 
The rifted wood roars wild and dreary, 

Loud the iron yett does clank, 

And cry of howlets makes me eerie. 

O are ye sleeping, Maggie ? &c. 

Aboon my breath I darna' speak, 

For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie, 

Cauld's the blast upon my cheek, — 
O rise, rise, my bonny lady ! 

O are ye sleeping, Maggie r &c. 

She opt the door, she let him in, 
He cuist aside his dreeping plaidie ; 

" Blaw your warst, ye rain and win*, 
Since, Maggie, now I'm in beside ye." 



" Now since ye're waking, Maggie, 
Now since ye're waking, Maggie, 
What care I for howlet's cry, 
For bour-tree bank, or warlock craigie !" 



O ROW THEE IN MY HIGHLAND PLAID. 

Arranged by Ross of Aberdeen. 

Lowland lassie, wilt thou go 

Where the hills are clad with snow, 

Where, beneath the icy steep, 

The hardy shepherd tends his sheep ? 

Ill nor wae shall thee betide, 

When row'd within my Highland plaid. 

Soon the voice of cheery Spring 
Will gar a our plantings ring ; 
E 3 



54: WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Soon our bonny heather braes 
Will put on their summer claise ; 
On the mountain's sunny side, 
We'll lean us on my Highland plaid. 

When the summer spreads the flow'rs, 
Busks the glens in leafy bow'rs, 
Then we'll seek the caller shade, 
Lean us on the primrose bed ; 
While the burning hours preside, 
I'll screen thee wi' my Highland plaid. 

Then we'll leave the sheep and goat, 
I will launch the bonny boat, 
Skim the loch in canty glee, 
Rest the oars to pleasure thee ; 
When chilly breezes sweep the tide, 
I'll hap thee wi' my Highland plaid. 

Lowland lads may dress mair fine, 
Woo in words mair saft than mine ; 
Lowland lads hae mair of art, 
A' my boast's an honest heart, 
Whilk shall ever be my pride ; — 
O row thee in my Highland plaid ! 

" Bonny lad, ye've been sae leal, 
My heart would break at our fareweel, 
Lang your love has made me fain, 
Take me— rtake me for your ain !" 
Across the Firth, away they glide, 
Young Donald and his Lowland bride. 



SONGS. 55 



THE HIGHLANDER'S INVITATION: 

A Parody on Moore's song of " Will you come to the bow'r.' , 

Will you come to the board I've prepared for you ? 
Your drink shall be good, of the true Highland blue, 
Will you, Donald, will you, Callum, come to the board ? 
There each shall be great as her own native lord. 

There'll be plenty of pipe, and a glorious supply 
Of the good sneesh-te-bacht, and the fine cut-an-dry, 
Will you, Donald, will you, Callum, come then at e'en f 
There be some for the stranger, but more for the frien'. 

There we'll drink foggy Care to his gloomy abodes, 
And we'll smoke till we sit in the clouds like the gods ; 
Will you, Donald, will you, Callum, wont you do so ? 
'Tis the way that our forefathers did long ago. 

And we'll drink to the Cameron, we'll drink to Lochiel, 
And, for Charlie, we'll drink all the French to the de'il. 
Will you, Donald, will you, Callum, drink there until 
There be heads lie like peats if hersel' had her will ! 

There be groats on the land, there be fish in the sea, 
And there's fouth in the coggie for friendship and me ; 
Come then, Donald, come then, Callum, come then to-night, 
Sure the Highlander be first in the fuddle and the fight. 



MY MARY. 
Air — Invercauld's Reel. 



My Mary is a bonny lassie, 

Sweet as dewy morn, 
When Fancy tunes her rural reed. 

Beside the upland thorn : 



56 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

She lives ahint yon sunny knowe, 
Where flow'rs in wild profusion grow, 
Where spreading birks and hazels throw 
Their shadows o'er the burn. 

'Tis no the streamlet-skirted wood, 

Wi' a' its leafy bow'rs, 
That gars me wait in solitude 

Among the wild-sprung flow'rs ; 
But aft I cast a langing e'e, 
Down frae the bank out-owre the lea, 
There haply I my lass may see, 

As through the broom she scours- 
Yestreen I met my bonnie lassie 

Coming frae the town, 
We raptur'd sunk in ither's arms 

And prest the breckans down ; 
The pairtrick sung his e'ening note, 
The rye-craik rispt his clamVous throat,* 
While there the heav'nly vow I got 

That arl't her my own. 

* We suspect that Tannahill inadvertently wrote " rye-craik," 
for " corn-craik," and thereby misled Dr Jamieson, who, in his 
Supplement, gives the former as "a provincial designation for 
the land-rail, Renfrewshire," and quotes the above passage, and 
it alone, as the authority. "We cannot discover that the name 
" rye-craik," is known either in Renfrewshire or elsewhere in 
Scotland. James Grahame, who was a native of the neighbour- 
ing city of Glasgow, and a contemporary of Tannahill, and who 
spent part of his childhood on the banks of the Cart, calls it 
the " corn-craik," in The Birds of Scotland, p. 68 : — 

'* Poor bird, though harsh thy note, I love it well! 
It tells of summer eves," &c. 

—Ed. 



SONGS. 57 



RESPONSIVE, YE WOODS. 

Air — My time, O ye Muses. 

Responsive, ye woods, wing your echoes along, 
Till nature, all sad, weeping, listen my song, 
Till flocks cease their bleating, and herds cease to low, 
And the clear winding rivulet scarce seem to flow ; 
For fair was the flower that once gladden'd our plains, 
Sweet rose-bud of virtue, ador'd by our swains ; 
But fate, like a blast from the chill wintry wave, 
Has laid my sweet flower in yon cold silent grave. 

Her warm feeling breast did with sympathy glow, 

In innocence pure as the new mountain snow ; 

Her face was more fair than the mild apple-bloom ; 

Her voice sweet as hope whisp'ring pleasures to come. 

Ah Mary, my love ! wilt thou never return ! 

'Tis thy William who calls — burst the bands of thine urn ' 

Together we'll wander — poor wretch, how I rave ! 

My Mary lies low in the lone silent grave. 

Yon tall leafy planes throw a deep solemn shade 

O'er the dear holy spot where my Mary is laid, 

Lest the light wanton sunbeams obtrude on the gloom 

That lorn love and friendship have wove round her tomb • 

Still there let the mild tears of nature remain, 

Till calm dewy Evening weep o'er her again ; 

There oft I will wander — no boon now I crave, 

But to weep life away o'er her dark silent grave. 



THE DEFEAT. 

From hill to hill the bugles sound 

The soul-arousing strain, 
The war-bred coursers paw the ground, 

And, foaming, champ the rein : 



58 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 



Their steel-clad riders bound on high, 

A bold defensive host, 
With valour fir'd, away they fly, 

Like light'ning, to the coast. 

And now they view the wide-spread lines 

Of the invading foe, 
Now skill with British brav'ry joins, 

To strike one final blow : 
Now on they rush with giant stroke — 

Ten thousand victims bleed — 
They trample on the iron yoke 

Which France for us decreed. 

Now view the trembling vanquish'd crew 

Kneel o'er their prostrate arms ; 
Implore respite of vengeance due 

For all these dire alarms : 
Now, while Humanity's warm glow, 

Half weeps the guilty slain, 
Let conquest gladden every brow, 

And god-like Mercy reign. 

Thus Fancy paints that awful day — 

Yes, dreadful, should it come ! 
But Britain's sons, in stern array, 

Shall brave its darkest gloom. 
Who fights his native rights to save, 

His worth shall have its claim ; 
The bard will consecrate his grave, 

And give his name to fame. 

Written at the time of the threatened invasion by France, 
in the beginning of this century. — Ed. 



SONGS. 5 ( J 



THE LAMENT OF WALLACE, 

AFTER THE BATTLE OF FALKIRK. 

Air — Maids of Arrochar. 

Thou dark winding Carron, once pleasing to see, 

To me thou can'st never give pleasure again ; 
My brave Caledonians lie low on the lea, 

And thy streams are deep-ting'd with the blood of the slain. 
Ah ! base-hearted treachery has doom'd our undoing, — 

My poor bleeding country, what more can I do ? 
Even valour looks pale o'er the red field of ruin, 

And Freedom beholds her best warriors laid low. 

Farewell, ye dear partners of peril ! farewell J 

Though buried ye lie in one wide bloody grave, 
Your deeds shall ennoble the place where ye fell, 

And your names be enroll'd with the sons of the brave. 
But I, a poor outcast, in exile must wander, 

Perhaps, like a traitor, ignobly must die ! 
On thy wrongs, O my country ! indignant I ponder — 

Ah ! woe to the hour when thy Wallace must fly ! 

In these verses the author has failed to give suitable ex- 
pression to the feelings of that " great patriot hero, ill re- 
quited chief," whose name and whose deeds are still, at the 
distance of five hundred years, so freshly and so honourably 
remembered by the whole Scottish people. Hear our 
national bard : — 

"At Wallace' name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace 1 side, 
Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, 
Or glorious dy'd." 

Tannahill had his own misgivings as to his success in 
this effort. It seems that he had written other verses, to 
accompany the same beautiful and plaintive air, but which 



60 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

not pleasing himself, he had substituted the above. In a 
letter to James Barr, 19th July, 1806, he says: " Accord- 
ing to promise, I send you two verses for the ' Maids of 
Arrochar ;' perhaps they are little better than the last. 
I believe the language is too weak for the subject ; however, 
they possess the advantage over the others of being found- 
ed on a real occurrence. The battle of Falkirk was Wal- 
lace's last, in which he was defeated with the loss of almost 
his whole army. I am sensible that to give words suitable 
to the poignancy of his grief, on such a trying reverse of 
fortune, would require all the fire and soul-melting energy 
of a Campbell, or a Burns." In the opinion thus modest- 
ly expressed, Tannahill was right. Besides, the utterance, 
even in that dark hour, of language so feeble and despond- 
ing, is not consistent with the stern and unyielding charac- 
ter of the indomitable assertor of our country's indepen- 
dence. — Ed. 



MY HEART IS SAIR WF HEAVY CARE. 

Air — The rosy brier. 

My heart is sair wi' heavy care, 

To think on Friendship's fickle smile ; 

It blinks a wee, wi 7 kindly e'e, 

When warld's thrift rins weel the while ; 

But, let Misfortune's tempests low'r, 

It soon turns cauld, it soon turns sour 
It looks sae high and scornfully, 

It winna ken a poor man's door. 

I ance had siller in my purse, 

I dealt it out right frank and free, 
And hop'd, should Fortune change her course, 

That they would do the same for me : 
But, weak in wit, I little thought 
That Friendship's smiles were sold and bought, 

'Till ance I saw, like April snaw, 
They wan'd awa' when I had nought. 



SONGS. Gl 



It's no to see my thread-bare coat, 
It's no to see my coggie toom, 

It's no to wair my hindmost groat, 

That gars me fret, and gars me gloom : 

But 'tis to see the scornful pride 

That honest Poortith aft maun bide 
Frae selfish slaves, and sordid knaves, 

Wha strut with Fortune on their side. 

But let it gang, what de'il care I ! 

With eident thrift I'll toil for mair ; 
I'll halve my mite with Misery, 

But fieri t a ane of them shall share : 
With soul unbent, I'll stand the stour, 
And while they're flutt'ring past my door, 

I'll sing with glee, and let them see 
An honest heart can ne'er be poor. 



THOUGH HUMBLE MY LOT. 

Air — Her sheep had in clusters. 

Where primroses spring on the green tufted brae, 

And the riv'let runs murm'ring below, 
! Fortune, at morning, or noon, let me stray, 

And thy wealth on thy vot'ries bestow ! 
For, O ! how enraptur'd my bosom does glow, 

As calmly I wander alane, 
Where wild woods, and bushes, and primroses grow, 

And a streamlet enlivens the scene. 

Though humble my lot, not ignoble's my state, 
Let me still be contented, though poor ; 

What Destiny brings, be resign'd to my fate, 
Though Misfortune should knock at my door. 



62 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

I care not for honour, preferment, nor wealth, 
Nor the titles that affluence yields, 

While blithely I roam, in the hey-day of health, 
'Midst the charms of my dear native fields. 



YE DEAR ROMANTIC SHADES. 

Air — Mrs Hamilton of Wishaw's strathspey. 

Far from the giddy court of mirth, 

Where sick'ning follies reign, 
By Levern banks I wander forth 

To hail each sylvan scene. 
All hail, ye dear romantic shades ! 
Ye banks, ye woods, and sunny glades ! 
Here oft the musing poet treads 

In Nature's riches great ; 
Contrasts the country with the town, 
Makes nature's beauties all his own, 
And, borne on Fancy's wings, looks down 

On empty pride and state. 

By dewy dawn, or sultry noon, 

Or sober evening gray, 
I'll often quit the dinsome town, 

By Levern banks to stray ,• 
Or from the upland's mossy brow, 
Enjoy the fancy-pleasing view 
Of streamlets, woods, and fields below, 

A sweetly varied scene ! 
Give riches to the miser's care, 
Let Folly shine in Fashion's glare. 
Give me the wealth of peace and health, 

With all their happy train. 



SONGS. 63 



THOU BONNY WOOD OF CRAIGIE LEA! 

Set to music by James Barr. 
CHORUS. 

Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea ! 
Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea ! 
Near thee I pass'd life's early day, 
And won my Mary's heart in thee. 

The broom, the brier, the birken bush, 
Bloom bonny o'er thy flow'ry lea ; 
And a' the sweets that ane can wish 
Frae nature's hand, are strew'd on thee. 

Far ben thy dark green planting's shade, 
The cushat croodles arn'rously ;* 
The mavis, down thy bughted glade, 
Gars echo ring frae ev'ry tree. 
Thou bonny wood, &c. 



* The cry of the cushat, or wood-pigeon, is often mentioned by 
Scottish poets. Thus in the old and once popular allegory of 
" The Cherrie and the Slae :" 

•' The cushat croods, the corbie crys." 

Alexander Hume, a poet of the same century, (the 16th,) says : 

4 'The cushat6 on the branches green 
Full quietly they crood." 

Nearer the present day we have — 

" While through the braes the cushat croods 

With wailfu' cry." Burns. 



And— 



1 Deep-toned— 



The cushat plains ; nor is her changeless plaint 

Unmusical, when with the general qnire 

Of woodland harmony, it softly blends." Grahame.— Ed. 

F 2 



64 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Awa\ ye thoughtless, murd'ring gang, 
Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee ! 
They'll sing you yet a canty sang, 
Then, O in pity let them be ! 
Thou bonny wood, &c. 

When Winter blaws in sleety show'rs 
Frae aff the Norland hills sae hie, 
He lightly skiffs thy bonny bow'rs, 
As laith to harm a flow'r in thee. 
Thou bonny wood, &c. 

Though fate should drag me south the line, 
Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea, 
The happy hours I'll ever mind, 
That I in youth ha'e spent in thee. 
Thou bonny wood, &c. 

Smith says, — " The music to ' Thou bonny wood of 
Craigie lea,' was composed by ' blithe Jamie Barr frae St 
Barchan's toun.' [So he was described in the song of * The 
Five Friends,' postea.] It does its author great credit. It 
is a very pleasing and natural melody, and has become, most 
deservedly, a great favourite all over the West Kintra side. 
I think this little ballad possesses considerable merit ; one 
of its stanzas strikes me as being particularly beautiful: — 

* When Winter blaws in sleety show'rs, 
Frae aff the Norland hills sae hie, 
He lightly skiffs thy bonny bow'rs, 
As laith to harm a flow'r in thee.'" 

— ' Harp,' Essay, p. xxxvii. 

The scenery, here so finely described, lies to the north- 
west of Paisley. Since Tannahill's time its beauty has 
been sadly impaired by the erection of a most unpoetical 
object, the gas- work. — Ed. 



SONGS. 65 



BONNY WINSOME MARY. 

Arranged by Smith to a Gaelic air. 

Fortune, frowning most severe, 
Forc'd me from my native dwelling, 
Parting with my friends so dear, 
Cost me many a bitter tear : 
But, like the clouds of early day, 
Soon my sorrows fled away, 
When blooming sweet, and smiling gay, 
I met my winsome Mary. 

Wha can sit with gloomy brow, 
Blest with sic a charming lassie ? 
Native scenes, I think on you, 
Yet the change I canna 7 rue ; 
Wand'ring many a weary mile, 
Fortune seem'd to lowV, the while, 
But now she's gi'en me, for the toil, 
My bonny winsome Mary. 

Though our riches are but few, 
Faithful love is aye a treasure-— 
Ever cheery, kind, and true, 
Nane but her I e'er can lo'e. 
Hear me, a' ye pow'rs above ! 
Pow'rs of sacred truth and love ! 
While I live I'll constant prove 
To my dear winsome Mary. 



66 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

THE FAREWELL. 

Air — Lord Gregory. 

Accuse me not, inconstant fair, 

Of being false to thee, 
For I was true, would still been so, 

Had'st thou been true to me : 
But when I knew thy plighted lips 

Once to a rival's prest, 
Love-smother'd independence rose, 

And spurn'd thee from my breast. 

The fairest flow'r in nature's field 

Conceals the rankling thorn ; 
So thou, sweet flow'r ! as false as fair, 

This once kind heart hast torn : 
'Twas mine to prove the fellest pangs 

That slighted love can feel ; 
'Tis thine to weep that one rash act, 

Which bids this long farewell. 



WITH WAEFU' HEART. 

Air — Sweet Annie frae the sea-beach came. 
Arranged by Smith. 

With waefu' heart, and sorrowing e'e, 

I saw my Jamie sail awa' ; 
O 'twas a fatal day to me, 

That day he pass'd the Berwick Law : 
How joyless now seem'd all behind ! 

I ling'ring stray'd along the shore ; 
Dark boding fears hung on my mind 

That I might never see him more. 



SONGS. 67 



The night came on with heavy rain, 

Loud, fierce, and wild, the tempest blew ; 
In mountains rolFd the awful main — 

Ah, hapless maid ! my fears how true ! 
The landsmen heard their drowning cries, 

The wreck was seen with dawning day ; 
My love was found, and now he lies 

Low in the isle of gloomy May. 

O boatman, kindly waft me o'er ! 

The cavern'd rock shall be my home ; 
'Twill ease my burthen'd heart, to pour 

Its sorrows o'er his grassy tomb : 
With sweetest flow'rs I'll deck his grave, 

And tend them through the langsome year ; 
I'll water them, ilk morn and eve, 

With deepest sorrow's warmest tear. 



THE MANIAC'S SONG. 

Arranged by Smith. 

Hark ! 'tis the poor maniac's song ; 

She sits on yon wild craggy steep, 
And while the winds mournfully whistle along, 

She wistfully looks o'er the deep ; 
And aye she sings, " Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby !" 

To hush the rude billows asleep. 

She looks to yon rock far at sea, 

And thinks it her lover's white sail, 
The warm tear of joy glads her wild glist'ning eye, 

As she beckons his vessel to hail : 
And aye she sings, " Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby!" 
And frets at the boisterous gale. 



GS WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 



Poor Susan was gentle and fair, 

Till the seas robb'd her heart of its joy; 

Then her reason was lost in the gloom of despair, 
And her charms then did wither and die ; 

And now her sad " Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby !" 
Oft wakes the lone passenger's sigh. 



YE ECHOES THAT RING. 

Arranged by Smith. 

Ye echoes that ring round the woods of Bowgreen, 
Say, did ye e'er listen sae melting a strain, 

When lovely young Jessie gaed wand'ring unseen, 
And sung of her laddie, the pride of the plain ? 

Aye she sung, " Willie, my bonny young Willie ! 

There's no a sweet flow'r on the mountain or valley, 

Mild blue spreckl'd crawflow'r, nor wild woodland lily, 
But tines a' its sweets in my bonny young swain. 

Thou goddess of love, keep him constant to me, 

Else, with'ring in sorrow, poor Jessie shall die !" 

Her laddie had stray'd through the dark leafy wood, 
His thoughts were a* fix'd on his dear lassie's charms. 

He heard her sweet voice, all transported he stood, 
'Twas the soul of his wishes — he flew to her arms. 

" No, my dear Jessie ! my lovely young Jessie ! 

Through simmer, through winter I'll daut and caress thee, 

Thou'rt dearer than life ! thou'rt my ae only lassie ! 
Then, banish thy bosom these needless alarms : 

Yon red setting sun sooner changeful shall be, 

Ere wav'ring in falsehood I wander frae thee." 



SONGS. 69 



WHEN ROSIE WAS FAITHFUL. 

Written on reading " The Harper of Mull," a Highland story. 

Arranged by Smith, 

When Rosie was faithful, how happy was I ! 

Still gladsome as summer the time glided by ; 

I play'd my harp cheery, while fondly I sang 

Of the charms of my Rosie the winter nights lang : 

But now I'm as waefu' as waefu' can be, 

Come simmer, come winter, 'tis a' ane to me, 

For the dark gloom of falsehood sae clouds my sad soul, 

That cheerless for aye is the Harper of Mull. 

I wander the glens and the wild woods alane, 
In their deepest recesses I make my sad mane ; 
My harp's mournful melody joins in the strain, 
While sadly I sing of the days that are gane. 
Though Rosie is faithless, she's no the less fair, 
And the thoughts of her beauty but feeds my despair; 
With painful remembrance my bosom is full, 
And weary of life is the Harper of Mull. 

As slumb'ring I lay by the dark mountain stream, 
My lovely young Rosie appear'd in my dream ; 
I thought her still kind, and I ne'er was sae blest, 
As in fancy I clasp'd the dear nymph to my breast : 
Thou false fleeting vision, too soon thou wert o'er ; 
Thou wak'd'st me to tortures unequall'd before ; 
But death's silent slumbers my griefs soon shall lull, 
And the green grass wave over the Harper of Mull. 

The story on which these verses are foiwided may be 
thus abridged : — 

In the island of Mull there lived a harper who was dis- 
tinguished for his professional skill, and the affectionate sim- 
plicity of his manners. He was attached to Rosie, the 



= 



70 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

fairest flower of the island, and soon made her his bride. 
Not long afterwards, he set out on a visit to some low- 
country friends, accompanied by his Rosie, and carrying his 
harp, which had been his companion in all his journeys for 
many years. Overtaken by the shades of night, in a soli- 
tary part of the country, a cold faintness fell upon Rosie, 
and she sank, almost lifeless, into the harper's arms. He 
hastily wrapped his plaid round her shivering frame ; but to 
no purpose. Distracted, he hurried from place to place in 
search of fuel to revive the dying embers of life. None 
could be found. His harp lay on the grass, its neglect- 
ed strings vibrating to the blast. The harper loved it 
as his own life, but he loved his Rosie better than either. 
His nervous arms were applied to its sides, and ere long it 
lay crackling and blazing on the heath. Rosie soon re- 
vived under its genial influence, and resumed the journey 
when morning began to purple the east. Passing down 
the side of a hill, they were met by a hunter, on horse- 
back, who addressed Rosie in the style of an old and 
familiar friend. The harper, innocent himself, and un- 
suspicious of others, paced slowly along, leaving her in 
converse with the stranger. Wondering at her delay, 
he turned round and beheld *the faithless fair seated 
behind the hunter on his steed, which speedily bore them 
out of sight. The unhappy harper, transfixed in astonish- 
ment, gazed at them. Then, slowly turning his steps 
homewards, he sighing exclaimed, — ' Fool that I was, to 
hum my harp for her V — Ed. 



THE NEGRO GIRL. 

Arranged hy Ross of Aberdeen, 

Yon poor Negro girl, an exotic plant, 

Was torn from her dear native soil, 
Reluctantly borne o'er the raging Atlant, 

Then brought to Britannia's isle. 
Tho' Fatima's mistress be loving and kind, 

Poor Fatima still must deplore ; 
She thinks on her parents, left weeping behind, 

And sighs for her dear native shore. 



SONGS. 7 1 



She thinks on her Zadi, the youth of her heart, 

Who from childhood was loving and true. 
How he cried on the beach, when the ship did depart ! 

'Twas a sad everlasting adieu. 
The shell-woven gift which he bound round her arm, 

The rude seaman unfeelingly tore, 
Nor left one sad relic her sorrows to charm, 

When far from her dear native shore. 

And now, all dejected, she wanders apart, 

No friend, save retirement, she seeks, 
The sigh of despondency bursts from her heart, 

And -tears dew her thin sable cheeks. 
Poor hard-fated girl, long, long she may mourn ! 

Life's pleasures to her are all o'er, 
Far fled ev'ry hope that she e'er shall return 

To revisit her dear native shore. 



THE BACCHANALIANS. 

Encircl'd in a cloud of smoke, 

Sat the convivial core ; 
Like light'ning flash'd the merry joke, 

The thund'ring laugh did roar. 
Blithe Bacchus pierc'd his fav'rite hoard, 

The sparkling glasses shine : 
" 'Tis this," they cry, " come, sweep the board, 

Which makes us all divine." 

Apollo tun'd the vocal shell, 

With song, with catch, and glee ; 

The sonorous hall the notes did swell, 
And echoed merrily. 



f ; 



72 WOEKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Each sordid, selfish, little thought. 
For shame itself did drown, 

And social love, with every draught, 
Approved them for her own. 

" Come, fill another bumper up, 

And drink in Bacchus' praise, 
Who sent the kind congenial cup, 

Such heavenly joys to raise." 
Great Jove, quite mad to see such fun, 

At Bacchus 'gan to curse, 
And to remind they were but men, 

Sent down the fiend Remorse. 



THE KEBBUCKSTON WEDDING, 

Written to an ancient Highland air. 

Auld Watty of Kebbuckston brae, 

With lear and reading of books auld-farren, — 
What think ye ! the body came owre the day, 

And tauld us he's gaun to be married to Mirren :* 

We a' got bidding, 

To gang to the wedding, 
Baith Johnny and Sandy, and Nelly and Nanny 5 

And Tarn o' the Knowes, 

He swears and he vows, 
At the dancing he'll face to the bride with his grannie, 

A' the lads hae trystet their joes, 

Slee Willy came up and ca'd on Nelly ; 
Although she was hecht to Geordy Bowse, 

She's gi'en him the gunk and she's gaun wi' Willie. 

* Mirren — the local pronunciation of the name Marion. — Ed* 



SONGS. 73 



Wee collier Johnny 

Has yocket his pony, 
And's affto the town for a lading of nappy, 

Wi' fouth of good meat 

To serve us to eat ; 
Sae with fuddling and feasting we'll a' be fu' happy. 

Wee Patie Brydie's to say the grace, 

The body's aye ready at dredgies and weddings, 
And Flunkie M'Fee, of the Skiverton place, 
Is chosen to scutle the pies and the puddings s 

For there'll be plenty 

Of ilka thing dainty, 
Baith lang kail and haggis, and ev'ry thing fitting, 

With luggies of beer, 

Our wizzens to clear ; 
Sae the de'il fill his kyte wha gaes clung frae the meeting. 

Lowrie has caft Gibbie Cameron's gun, 

That his auld gutcher bore when he folio w'd Prince 
Charlie : 
The barrel was rustet as black as the grun, 

But he's ta'en't to the smiddy and's fettl'd it rarely. 
With wallets of pouther, 
His musket he'll shouther, 
And ride at our head, to the bride's a' parading ; 
At ilka farm town 
He'll fire them three roun', 
Till the haill kintra ring with the Kebbuckston Wedding. 

Jamie and Johnnie maun ride the bruse, 

For few like them can sit in the saddle ; 
And Willie Ga'breath, the best o' bows,* 

Is trysted to jig in the barn with his fiddle : 

* William Galbreath, whose services as a violin player were 
put in requisition on festive occasions all the country round. He 



WGftKS OF TANNAHILL. 



With whisking and flisking, 

And reeling and wheeling, 
The young anes a' like to loup out of the body ; 

And Neilie Mac Nairn, 

Though sair forfairn, 
He vows that he'll wallop twa sets with the howdie. 

Sawney MacNab, wi' his tartan trews, 

Has hecht to come down in the midst of the caper, 
And gi'e us three wallops of merry shantrews, 

With the true Highland fling of Macrimmon the piper: 
Sic hipping and skipping, 
And springing and flinging, 
Pse wad that there's nane in the Lawlands can waff it ! 
Faith ! Willie maun fiddle, 
And jirgum and diddle, 
And screed till the sweat fa's in beads frae his haffet. 

Then gi'e me your hand, my trusty good frien\ 

And gi'e me your word, my worthy auld kimmer, 
Ye'll baith come owre on Friday bedeen, 

And join us in ranting and tooming the timmer : 

With fouth of good liquor, 

We'll haud at the bicker, 
And lang may the mailing of Kebbuckston flourish ! 

For Watty's sae free, 

Between you and me, 
Pse warrant he's bidden the half of the parish. 



lived daring the greater part of his days in Kilbarchan, where he, 
after an interval of two centuries, worthily filled the situation 
of its renowned piper, Habbie Simpson. William had a buirdly, 
personable figure, but, unhappily, was blind from infancy. Tan- 
nahill listened with great pleasure to his strains ; and Smith had 
a good opinion of his abilities and named a tune after him. 
Latterly he resided in Johnston, where he died on 13th May, 
1835, aged 63.— Ed. 



songs. 75 



The humour and spirit of this production are so appro- 
priate, that it is to be regretted the author did not write 
more in the same vein. The bill of fare, and the descrip- 
tion of the guests, will bring Francis SempilPs song of 
* The Blithesome Bridal,' to the recollection of those read- 
ers who are acquainted with Scottish poetry of the seven- 
teenth century. — Ed. 



I MARK'D A GEM OF PEARLY DEW. 

I mark'd a gem of pearly dew, 

While wand'ring near yon misty mountain, 
Which bore the tender fiow'r so low, 

It dropp'd it off into the fountain. 
So thou hast wrung this gentle heart, 

Which in its core was proud to wear thee, 
Till drooping sick beneath thy art, 

It sighing found it could not bear thee. 

Adieu, thou faithless fair ! unkind ! 

Thy falsehood dooms that we must sever ; 
Thy vows were as the passing wind, 

That fans the flow'r, then dies for ever. 
And think not that this gentle heart, 

Though in its core 'twas proud to wear thee, 
Shall longer droop beneath thy art : — 

No, cruel fair, it cannot bear thee. 

Tannahill and Smith once went on a fishing excursion 
with some acquaintances. The two friends being but tyros 
soon grew weary of lashing the water to no purpose, and 
separated for a little, each to amuse himself in his own 
fashion. When Smith rejoined the poet, he was shown 
this song written with a pencil. Tannahill had been oc- 
cupied observing a blade of grass bending under the weight 
of a dew-drop, and this trifling object had suggested to 
him the simile embodied in the song. — Ed. 

g 2 



76 WOEKS OF TANNAHILL. 



THE BARD OF GLEN-ULLIN. 

Tho' my eyes are grown dim, and my locks are turn'd grey, 
i feel not the storm of life's bleak wintry day ; 
For my cot is well thatch'd, and my barns are full stor'd* 
And cheerful Content still presides at my board : 
Warm-hearted Benevolence stands at my door, 
Dispensing her gifts to the wandering poor ; 
The glow of the heart does my bounty repay, 
And lightens the cares of life's bleak wintry day. 

From the summit of years I look down on the vale, 
Where Age pines in sorrow, neglected and pale ; 
There the sunshine of Fortune scarce deign'd to bestow 
One heart-cheering smile on the wand'rers below : 
From the sad dreary prospect, this lesson I drew, 
That those who are helpless, are friended by few ; 
So with vigorous industry I smooth'd the rough way, 
That leads through the vale of life's bleak wintry day, 

Then, my son, let the Bard of Glen-Ullin advise, 

(For years can give counsel, experience makes wise) 

'Midst thy wand'rings, let honour for aye be thy guide, 

O'er thy actions let honesty ever preside : 

Then, though hardships assail thee, in virtue thou'lt smile, 

For light is the heart that's untainted with guile ; 

But, if Fortune attend thee, my counsels obey, 

Prepare for the storms of life's bleak wintry day. 



SONGS. 77 



THE COGGIE, 

Air — Cauld kail in Aberdeen. 

When Poortith cauld, and sour Disdain, 

Hang owre life's vale sae foggie, 
The sun that brightens up the scene, 
Js Friendship's kindly coggie : 

Then, O revere the coggie, sirs ! 
The friendly, social coggie ! 
It gars the wheels of life rin light, 
Though e'er sae doilt and cloggie. 

Let Pride in Fortune's chariots fly, 

Sae empty, vain, and vogie ; 
The source of wit, the spring of joy, 
Lies in the social coggie : 

Then, O revere the coggie, sirs! 
The independent coggie ! 
And never snool beneath the frown 
Of ony selfish roguie. 

Poor modest Worth, with cheerless e'e, 

Sits hurkling in the boggie, 
Till she asserts her dignity 
By virtue of the coggie : 

Then, O revere the coggie, sirs ! 
The poor man's patron coggie ! 
It warsels care, it fights life's faugh ts. 
And lifts him frae the boggie. 

Gi'e feckless Spain her weak snail broo, 
Gi'e France her weel spic'd froggie, 

Gi'e brother John his luncheon too, 
But gi'e to us our coggie : 
g3 



78 



WOKES OF TANNAHILLc 



Then, O revere the coggie, sirs ! 
Our soul-warm kindred coggie ! 
Hearts doubly knit in social tie, 
When just a wee thought groggie. 

In days of yore our sturdy sires, 
Upon their hills sae scroggie, 
Glow'd with true freedom's warmest fires, 
And fought to save their coggie : 
Then, O revere the coggie, sirs ! 
Our brave forefathers' coggie ! 
It rous'd them up to doughty deeds, 
O'er which we'll lang be vogie. 

Then, here's — may Scotland ne'er fa' down, 

A cringing coward doggie, 
But bauldly stand, and bang the loon 
Wha'd reave her of her coggie : 

Then, O protect the coggie, sirs! 
Our gude auld mither's coggie ! 
Nor let her luggie e'er be drain'd 
By ony foreign roguie. 



THE FI\E FRIENDS. 

Air— We're a' noddin. 

Weel, wha's in the bouroch, and what is your cheer ? 
The best that ye'll find in a thousand year; 

And we're a' noddin, nid, nid, noddin, 

We're a' noddin fu' at e'en. 



There's our ain Jamie Clark, frae the hall of Argyle, 
Wi' his leal Scottish heart, and his kind open smile ; 
And we're a' noddin, &c. 



SONGS. 79 

There is Will, the glide fallow, wha kills a' our care, 
Wi' his sang an' his joke — and a mutchkin mair ; 
And we're a' noddin, &c. 

There is blithe Jamie Barr, frae St. Barchan's toun, 
When wit gets a kingdom, he's sure o' the crown; 
And we're a' noddin, &c. 

There is Rab, frae the south, wi' his fiddle and his flute, 
I could list to his strains till the starns fa' out ; 
And we're a' noddin, &c. 

Apollo, for our comfort, has furnished the bowl, 
And here is my hardship as blind as an owl ; 
For we're a' noddin, &c. 

Of this gay and complimentary effusion, Smith has given 
the following account; — " The little Bacchanalian rant you 
are so anxious to know the history of, was written in com- 
memoration of a very happy evening, spent by the poet 
with four of his musical friends. At that meeting he was 
in high spirits, and his conversation became more than 
usually animated ; many songs were sung, and we had some 
glee singing, but neither 'fiddle' nor 'flute' made its ap- 
pearance in company, nor were any of us ' nid, nid, noddin.' 
We were ' unco happy,' and had just such a ' drappie in 
our e'e' as enabled us to bid defiance to care for the time 
being; but the poet thought proper to embellish his song 
with the old chorus, ' We're a' noddin,' and rather than 
throw aside a lucky thought, he chose to depict his ain 
hardship, ' as blind as an owl ;' but I assure you this was 
not the case,- — his hardship had all his faculties ' sitting 
lightly on him.'" — ' Harp of Renfrewshire, p. xxxvii. 

The " Five Friends" were, — James Clark, the poet's cor- 
respondent, who now resides at Campbelton, Argyleshire, — 
William Stuart, now at Anderston, Glasgow, — James Barr, 
who lived at Kilbarchan, (' St Barchan's toun,') but went 
abroad some years ago, — Smith, — and Tannahill himself. 
To Mr Stuart we are indebted for some interesting infor- 
mation concerning Smith and the poet. — Ed. 



80 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

YE WOOER LADS WHA GREET AN' GRANE. 

Air — Callum Brogach. 

Ye wooer lads wha greet an' grane. 
Wha preach an' fleeeh, an' mak' a mane, 
An' pine yonrsels to skin and bane, 

Come a' to Callum Brogach : 
Pll learn you here the only art, 
To win a bonnie lassie's heart — 
Just tip wi' gowd Love's siller dart, 

Like dainty Callum Brogach. 

I ca'd her aye my sonsie dow, 

The fairest flower that e'er I knew ; 

Yet, like a souple spankie grew, 

She fled frae Callum Brogach : 
But soon's she heard the guinea ring, 
She turn'd as I had been a king, 
Wi' " Tak my hand, or ony thing, 

Dear, dainty Callum Brogach." 

It's gowd can mak' the blind to see, 
Can bring respect whare nane would be, 
And Cupid ne'er shall want his fee 

Frae dainty Callum Brogach : 
Nae mair wi' greetin' blind your een, 
Nae mair wi' sichin' warm the win', 
But hire the gettlin for your frien', 

Like daintv Callum Brogach. 



Copied from a letter written by the author to Mr John 
Crawford, Largs, on 17th March, 1810.— Ed. 



j 

SONGS. 81 



AND WERE YE AT DUNTOCHER BURN? 

And were ye at Duntocher burn, 

And did ye see them a', man ? 
And how's my wifie and the bairns ? 

I hae been lang awa', man. 
Tiiat cotton wark's a weary trade, 

It does na' suit ava, man ; 
Wi' lanely house, and lanely bed, 

My comforts are but sma', man. 

And how's wee Sandy, Pate, and Tarn Y 

Sit down and tak' your blaw, man : 
Fey, lassie, rin, fetch in a dram, 

To treat my friend, John Lamon'. 
For ilka plack you've gi'en to mine, 

Your callans shall get twa, man ; 
O were my heels as licht's my heart, 

I soon would see them a', man. 

My blessing on her kindly heart, 

She likes to see me braw, man ; 
She's darn'd my hose, and bleach'd my sarks 

As white's the driven snaw, man. 
And ere the winds o- Martinmas 

Sough through the scroggie shaw, man, 
I'll lift my weel-hain'd penny fee, 

And gang and see them a', man. 

This is one of the pieces mentioned in the Memoir, of 
which only the first stanzas were understood to have been 
preserved. The remainder of the above, however, has fortun- 
ately been recovered from a letter to King, 9th May, 1809, 
in which the author says; " The above is written on a real 
occurrence, which fell under my observation, but I doubt 
the subject is not very well suited for a song ; therefore I 
am the more anxious to have your mind on it, — not in that 
loose, vague way which goes for little or nothing, but in 
I have shown you a pattern in my last." — Ed. 



82 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. 

Air — Holden's Dead March. 

Now let the procession move solemn and slow, 
While the soft mournful music accords with our wo, 
While Friendship's warm tears o'er his ashes are shed, 
And soul-melting Memory weeps for the dead. 
Kind, good-hearted fellow as ever was known! 
So kind and so good every heart was his own ; 
Now, alas ! low in death are his virtues all o'er ; 
How painful the thought, we will see him no more ! 

In camp or in quarters he still was the same, 
Each countenance brighten'd wherever he came ; 
When the wars of his country compell'd him to roam, 
He cheerful would say, all the world was his home. 
And when the fierce conflict of armies began, 
He fought like a lion, yet felt as a man ;* 
For when British bravery had vanquish'd the foe, 
He'd weep o'er the dead by his valour laid low. 

Ye time-fretted mansions ! ye mouldering piles ! 
Loud echo his praise through your long vaulted aisles ; 
If haply his shade nightly glide through your gloom, 
O tell him our hearts lie with him in the tomb ! 
And say, though he's gone, long his worth shall remain, 
Remember'd, belov'd, by the whole of the men : — 
Whoe'er acts like him, with a warm feeling heart, 
Friendship's tears drop applause at the close of his part. 

This song appeared in the only edition which was pub- 
lished in the author's lifetime, but has hitherto been omitted 
in the posthumous editions — probably from oversight. — Ed. 

* " They bore as heroes, but they felt as man." 

Pope's Homer. 
i( He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man." 

Beatties Hermit. — Author. 



SONGS. 83 



MARJORY MILLER. 

Louder than the trump of fame 

Is the voice of Marjory Miller ; 
Time, the wildest beast can tame, 
She's eternally the same : 

Loud the mill's incessant clack, 
Loud the clank of Vulcan's hammer, 

Loud the deep-mouth'd cataract, 
But louder far her dinsome clamour ! 

Nought on earth can equal be 

To the noise of Marjory. 

Calm succeeds the tempest's roar, 
Peace does follow war's confusion, 

Dogs do bark and soon give o'er, 

But she barks for evermore : 

Loud's the sounding bleachfield horn, 

But her voice is ten times louder ! 
Red's the sun on winter morn, 

But her face is ten times redder ! 
She delights in endless strife, 
Lord preserve's from such a wife ! 

The same remark applies to this song as to " The Soldier's 
Funeral."—ED. 



ALL HAIL! YE DEAR ROMANTIC SCENES. 

All hail ! ye dear romantic scenes, 

Where oft as eve stole o'er the sky, 
Ye've found me by the mountain streams, 

Where blooming wild-flowers charm the eve. 



84 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

The sun's now setting in the west — 
Mild are his beams on hill and plain ; 

No sound is heard save Killoch burn, 
Deep murm'ring down its woody glen. 

Green be thy banks, thou silver stream, 
That winds the flowery braes among ; 

Where oft I've woo'd the Scottish muse, 
And raptur'd wove the rustic song. 



NOW WINTER IS GANE. 
Air — The fair-haired Child. 

Now winter is gane and the clouds flee away, 
Yon bonny blue sky how delightfu' to see, 
Now linties and blackbirds sing on ilka spray 
That flourishes round Woodhouselee : 
The hawthorn is blooming, 
The soft breeze perfuming, 
O come, my dear lassie, the season is gay, 
And naething mair lovely can be : 
The primrose and lily, 
We'll pu' in the valley, 
And lean when we like on some gowany brae, 
That rises beside Woodhouselee. 

Ye mind when the snaw lay sae deep on the hill, 

When cauld icy cranreuch hung white on the tree, 
When bushes were leafless, and mournfully still 
Were the wee birds o' sweet Woodhouselee : 
When snaw show'rs were fa'ing, 
And wintry winds blawing, 
Loud whistling o'er mountain and meadow sae chill, 
We mark'd it wi' soirowins: e'e: 



SONGS. 



85 



But now since the flowers 
Again busk the bowers, 
O come, my dear lassie, wi' smiling good will, 
And wander around Woodhouselee. 



In a Selection made by Smith for the use of his pupils, 
he inserted the above with the following notice : — 

" It may be interesting to many to learn that this little 
song is the joint production of the late Mr John Hamilton, 
of Edinburgh, and Tannahill. Mr Hamilton wrote the 
first stanza for an ancient Irish melody, * The fair-haired 
Child/ but after several unavailing attempts to proceed 
further, he applied to Tannahill, through the medium of a 
friend, (Clark,) for a second verse. In a short time the 
request was complied with, and the bard sent it to his 
friend with the following note : — ' Mr Hamilton's stanza 
is admirably suited to the air. In my opinion his lines 
possess, in an eminent degree, that beautiful, natural sim- 
plicity which characterises our best Scottish songs. I have 
attempted to add a verse to it, but I fear you will think it 
but a frigid production ; the original one is so complete in 
itself, that he who tries another to it, labours under the dis- 
advantage of not knowing what to say farther on the subject. 
However, I give you all that I could make of it.'" — Ed. 



FRAGMENTS. 



The following are those Fragments of Songs, mentioned 
in the Memoir of Tannahill, as having been preserved in a 
book which he kept. 

HEY DONALD! HOW DONALD! 

Arranged by Smith to a Gaelic air. 

Though simmer smiles on bank and brae, 
And nature bids the heart be gay, 
Yet a' the joys o' flowery May 
Wi' pleasure ne'er can move me. 

Hey Donald ! how Donald ! 

Think upon your vow, Donald ! 

Mind the heather knowe, Donald ! 

Whare ye vow'd to love me. 

Addition by William Motherwell. 

The budding rose and scented brier, 
The siller fountain skinkling clear, 
The merry lav'rock whistling near, 
Wi' pleasure ne'er can move me. 
Hey Donald ! &c. 

I downa look on bank or brae, 
I downa greet whare a' are gay, 
But oh ! my heart will break wi' wae 
Gin Donald cease to love me. 
Hey Donald ! &c. 
h2 



WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 



The two supplemental stanzas were written by Mother- 
well, about the year 1820, at the request of Smith, who 
was fond of the air, which he took down from the voice of 
a country girl in Arran. Smith afterwards inserted the 
whole song, as now given, in the second volume of his 
Scottish Minstrel. — Ed. 



MEG O' THE GLEN. 

Air — When she cam' ben she bobbit. 

Meg o' the glen set aff to the fair, 
WT ruffles an' ribbons, an' meikle prepare, 
Her heart it was heavy, her head it was licht, 
For a* the lang way, for a wooer she sicht ; 
She spak to the lads, but the lads slippet by, 
She spak to the lasses, the lasses were shy, 
She thocht she might do, but she didna weel ken, 
For nane seem'd to care for poor Meg o' the Glen. 

Addition by Alexander Rodger, 

But wat ye what was't made the lads a' gae by ? 
An' wat ye what was't made the lasses sae shy % 
Poor Meg o' the glen had nae tocher ava, 
And therefore could neither be bonny nor braw ; 
But an uncle wha lang in the Indies had been, 
Foreseeing death coming to close his auld een, 
Made his will, left her heiress, o' thousand punds ten ; 
Now, wha is mair thocht o* than Meg o' the glen ! 



THE LASSIE O' MERRY EIGHTEEN. 

My father would hae me to marry the miller, 
My mither would hae me to marry the laird, 

But brawly I ken it's the love o' the siller 
That brightens their fancy to ony regard. 



SONGS. 89 



The miller is crookit, the miller is crabbit, 

The laird, though he's wealthy, he's lyart and lean, 

He's auld, an' he's cauld, an' he's blin', an' he»s bald, 
An' he's no for a lassie o' merry eighteen. 

Addition by A. Rodger. 

But O there's a laddie wha tells me he loes me, 

An' him I loe dearly, aye, dearly as life, 
Though father an' mither should scauld an' abuse me, 

Nae ither shall ever get me for a wife : 
Although he can boast na o' land nor yet siller, 

He's worthy to match wi' a duchess or queen, 
For his heart is sae warm, an' sae stately his form, 

An' then, like mysel', he's just merry eighteen." 



COME HAME TO YOUR LINGELS. 

Air — Whistle an' I'll come to you, my lad. 

Come hame to your lingels, ye ne'er-do-weel loon, 
You're the king of the dyvours, the talk o' the town ; 
Sae soon as the Munonday morning comes in, 
Your wearifu' daidling again maun begin. 
Gudewife, ye're a skellat, your tongue's just a bell, 
To the peace o' guid fallows it rings the death-knell ; 
But clack till ye deafen auld Barnaby's mill, 
The souter shall aye hae his Munonday's yill. 

Addition by A. Rodger. 

" Come hame to your lap-stane, come hame to your last, 
It's a bonny affair that your family maun fast, 
While you and your crew here a-guzzling maun sit, 
Ye dais'd drunken guid-for-nocht heir o' the pit ; 
Just leuk, how I'm gaun without stocking or shoe, 
Your bairns a' in tatters, an' fatherless too, 

H 3 



90 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

An* yet, quite content, like a sot, ye'U sit still, 

Till your kyte's like to crack, wi' your Munonday's yill." 

" I tell you, gudewife, gin ye haudna your clack, 
I'll lend you a reestle wi' this, owre your back ; 
Maun we be abused, an' affronted by you, 
Wi' siccan foul names as * loon,' ■ dyvour/ an' ■ crew ?' n 
" Come hame to your lingels, this instant come hame, 
Or I'll redden your face, gin ye've yet ony shame, 
For I'll bring a' the bairns, an' we'll just hae our fill, 
As weel as yoursel, o' your Munonday's yill." 

" Gin that be the gate o't, sirs, come let us stir, 
What need we sit here to be pester'd by her, 
For she'll plague an' affront us as far as she can. 
Did ever a woman sae bother a man ? 
Frae yill-house to yill-house she'll after us rin, 
An' raise the hail town wi' her yelpin* an* din ; 
Come ca' the gudewife, bid her bring in her bill, 
I see I maun quat takin' Munonday's yill." 



BRAVE LEWIE ROY. 

An old Gaelic Air. 

Brave Lewie Roy was the flower of our Highlandmen, 

Tall as the oak on the lofty Benvoirlich, 
Fleet as the light-bounding tenants of Fillin-glen, 

Dearer than life to his lovely nighean choidheach* 
Lone was his biding, the cave of his hiding, 

When forc'd to retire with our gallant Prince Charlie, 
Though manly and fearless, his bold heart was cheerless, 

Away from the lady he aye loved so dearly. 

* Pronounced neen voiuch — beautiful maid. — Ed. 



SONGS. 91 



Addition by A. Rodger, 

But wo on the blood-thirsty mandates of Cumberland, 

Wo on the blood-thirsty gang that fulfill'd them ; 
Poor Caledonia! bleeding and plunder'd land, 

Where shall thy children now shelter and shield them ? 
Keen prowl the cravens, like merciless ravens, 

Their prey, — the devoted adherents of Charlie ; 
Brave Lewie Roy is ta'en, cowardly hack'd and slain — 

Ah ! his nighean choidheach will mourn for him sairly. 



O HOW CAN YOU GANG LASSIE. 

Air — The bonniest lass in a' the warld. 

Arranged by Smith. 

O how can you gang, lassie, how can you gang, 

O how can you gang sae to grieve me ! 
Wi' your beauty, and your art, ye hae broken my heart 

For I never, never dreamt ye would leave me. 

Addition by A. Rodger. 

Ah ! wha would hae thought that sae bonnie a face 

Could e'er wear a smile to deceive me ? 
Or that guile in that fair bosom coald e'er find a place, 

And that you would break your vow thus, and leave me ? 

O have ye not mind, when our names you entwined, 
In a wreath, round the purse you did weave me ? 

Or have you now forgot the once-dear trysting spot, 

Where so oft you pledged your faith ne'er to leave me ? 

But, changing as wind is your light fickle mind; 

Your smiles, tokens, vows, all deceive me ; 
No more, then, I'll trust, to such frail painted dust, 

But bewail my fate, till kind death relieve me. 



92 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

Then gang fickle fair to your new-fangled joe, 
Yes, gang, and in wretchedness leave me, 

But, alas ! should you be doomed to a wedlock of wo, 
Ah ! how would your unhappiness grieve me ; 

Yet, Mary ! all faithless and false as thou art, 

Thy spell-binding glances, believe me, 
So closely are entwined round this fond foolish heart, 

That the grave alone of them can bereave me. 



I'LL LAY ME ON THE WINTRY LEA. 

Air Waly, waly, — old set. 
Arranged by Smith, 

I'll lay me on the wintry lea, 

And sleep amidst the wind and weet, 

And ere another's bride I be, 

O bring to me my winding sheet ! 

What can a hapless lassie do, 
When ilka friend wad prove her foe, 

Wad gar her break her dearest vow, 
To wed wi' ane she canna' loe ? 



FAITHLESS NANNIE. 

Full eighteen summers up life's brae, 

I speeded on fu' canny, O, 
Till sleeky love threw in my way, 

Young, bonny fair-haired Nannie, O. 



SONGS. 93 



I woo'd her soon, I wan her syne, 
Our vows o' love were mony, O, 

And, O what happy days were mine, 
Wi' bonnie fair-hair'd Nannie, O ! 



DAVIE TULLOCH'S BONNIE KATIE. 

Davie Tulloch's bonnie Katie, 
Davie's bonnie blithsome Katie, 

Tam the laird cam down yestreen, 
He socht her love, but gat her pity. 

Wi' trembling grip he squeez'd her hand, 
While his auld heart gaed pitty-patty ; 

Aye he thought his gear and land 
Wad win the love o' bonnie Katie. 

Davie Tulloch's bonnie Katie, 
Davie's bonnie blithsome Katie, 

Aye she smiPd as Tammie wil'd, 

Her smile was scorn, yet mixt wi' pity. 



THE BANKS OF SPEY. 

Scenes of my childhood, your wanderer hails you, 
Wing'd with rude storms, though the winter assails you, 
Bleak and dreary as ye are, ye yet hae charms to cheer me, 
For here, amidst my native hills, my bonnie lassie's near me ; 
'Tis sad to see the withered lea, the drumly flooded fountain, 
The angry storm in awful form, that sweeps the moor 
and mountain ; 



94 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

But frae the surly swelling blast, dear lassie, I'll defend her, 
And frae the bonnie banks o' Spey I never more shall 
wander. 



THE LASSES A' LEUGH. 

Air — Kiss'd yestreen. 

The lasses a' leugh, an' the carline flate, 
But Maggie was sitting fu' ourie an' blate ; 
The auld silly gawkie, she couldna contain, 
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen, 

Kiss'd yestreen, kiss'd yestreen, 
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen ; 
She blether'd it round to her fae an' her frien', 

How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen. 



O LADDIE, CAN YE LEAVE ME. 

O laddie, can ye leave me ! 

Alas ! 'twill break this constant heart ; 
There's nought on earth can grieve me 

Like this, that we must part. 
Think on the tender vow you made 

Beneath the secret birken shade, 
And can you now deceive me ! 

Is a' your love but art ? 



SONGS. 95 



AWAY, GLOOMY CARE. 
A Fragment. 

Away, gloomy Care, there's no place for thee here, 

Where so many good fellows are met ; 
Thou wouldst dun the poor bard every day in the year, 

Yet I'm sure I am none in thy debt. 
Go, soak thy old skin in the miser's small beer, 

And keep watch in his cell all the night ; 
And if in the morning thou dar'st to appear, 

By Jove, I shall drown thee outright. 



THOU CAULD GLOOMY FEBERWAR 

Thou cauld gloomy Feberwar, 

O gin thou wert awa, 
I'm wae to hear thy sughin' winds, 

I'm wae to see thy snaw : 
For my bonnie brave young Highlander; 

The lad I lo'e sae dear, 
Has vow'd to come and see me, 

In the spring o' the year. 



NOW, MARION, DRY YOUR TEARFUL E'E. 

Now, Marion, dry your tearful e'e, 

Gae break your rock in twa, 
For soon your gallant, sons ye'll see, 

Return'd in safety a\ 



96 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

O wow, gudeman, my heart is fain ! 
And shall I see my bairns again, 
A' seated round our ain hearth-stane, 
Nae mair to gang awa ? 



KITTY O'CARROL. 

Ye may boast of your charms, and be proud, to be sure, 
As if there was never such beauty before ; 
But ere I got wedded to old Thady More, 
I had dozens of wooers each night at my door, 
With their " Och dear ! O will you marry me, 
Kitty O'Carrol, the joy of my soul 1" 



MY DAYS HAE FLOWN WF GLEESOME SPEED. 

My days hae flown wi' gleesome speed, 

Grief ne'er sat heavy on my mind, 
Sae happy wi' my rural reed, 

I lilted every care behind ; 
I've been vext and sair perplext 

When friends prov'd false, or beauty shy ; 
But, like gude John o' Badenyon, 

I croon 'd my lilt and car'd na by. 



SONGS. 97 



O WEEP NOT, MY LOVE. 

O weep not, my love, though I go to the war, 

For soon I'll return rich with honours to thee; 
The soul-rousing pihroch is sounding afar, 

And the clans are assembling in Morar-craiglee : 
Our flocks are all plunder'd, our herdsmen are murder'd, 

And, fir'd with oppression, aveng'd we shall be ; 
To-morrow we'll vanquish these ravaging English, 

And then I'll return to thy baby and thee. 



SING ON, THOU SWEET WARBLER. 

Sing on, thou sweet warbler, thy glad e'ening song, 
And charm the lone echoes the green woods among ; 

As dear unto thee is the sun's setting beam, 
So dear unto me is the soul's melting dream : 

The dark winter frowning, all pleasure disowning, 

Shall strip thy green woods and be deaf to thy moaning ; 

But dark stormy winter is yet far away, 

Then let us be glad, when all nature is gay. 



THE POOR MAN'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH 
OF HIS COW. 

How gay rose this morning, how cheerful was I, 
No care on my mind, and no cloud on the sky ; 
I dreamt not ere night that my sorrows should flow, 
Bewailing the fate of my poor drimindo.* 



* Drimindu — a name for the cow. — Ed. 
I 



98 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

AWAKE, MY HARP, THE CHEERFUL STRAIN! 

Awake, my harp, the cheerful strain ! 

Shall I, the first of Erin's warrior band, 

In wasting sorrow still complain ? 

The first to dare stern dangers bloody field, 

Shall I to silly, changeful woman yield ? 
No — raise, my harp, the cheerful strain, 

What is a rosy cheek, or lily hand ! 
Since thus she scorns, Til scorn again. 



THE SOLDIER'S ADIEU. 

The weary sun's gane doun the west, 

The birds sit nodding on the tree, 
All nature now inclines for rest, 

But rest allow'd there's none for me i 
The trumpet calls to wars alarms, 

The rattling drum forbids my stay ; 
Ah ! Nancy, bless thy soldier's arms, 

For ere morn I will be far awav. 



LONE IN YON DARK SEQUESTER'D GROVE. 

Lone in yon dark sequester'd grove, 

Poor hapless Lubin strays ; 
A prey to ill-requited love, 

He spends his joyless days : 



SONGS. 99 



Ah ! cruel Jessie, couldst thou know 
What worthy heart was thine, 

Thou ne'er hadst wrong'd poor Lubin so, 
Nor left that heart to pine. 



i 2 



'I *i 



PART SECOND. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 



EPISTLE TO JAMES KING* 

ON RECEIVING A MORAL EPISTLE FROM HIM. — MAY, 1802. 

Please accept the thanks and praise, 

Due to your poetic lays ; 

Wisdom aye should be rever'd, 

Sense to wit be aye preferr'd. 

— Just your thoughts, in simple guise, 

Fit to make frail mortals wise, 

Every period, every line, . 

With some moral truth doth shine. 

— Like the rocks, which storms divide, 

Thund'ring down the mountain side, 

So strides Time, with rapid force, 

Round his unobstructed course ; 

Like a flood upon its way, 

Sweeping downward to the sea: 

But what figure so sublime 

As describe the flight of time ? 

— Life's a dream, and man's a bubble, 

'Compass'd round with care and trouble, 

* This old friend and correspondent of the author still sur- 
vives : 1837. Ed. 



104 



WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 



Like a ship in tempest tost, 

Soon o erwhelm'd, for ever lost ; 

Like the short-liv'd passion-flow'r, 

Blooming, dying, in an hour ; 

Like the tuneful bird that sings, 

Flutt'ring high on sportive wings, 

Till the fowler's subtle art, 

Drives Death's message to its heart, 

While, perhaps, Death aims his blow 

Swift to lay the wretch as low. 

— Now since life is but a day, 

Make the most of it we may ; 

Calm and tranquil let us be, 

Still resign'd to Fate's decree : 

Let not poortith sink us low, 

Let not wealth exalt our brow ; 

Let's be grateful, virtuous, wise,-^ 

There's where all our greatness lies z 

Doing all the good we can, 

Is all that Heaven requires of man. 

— Wherefore should we grieve and sigh, 

'Cause we know that we must die ? 

Death's a debt requir'd by nature, 

To be paid by every creature ; 

Rich and poor, and high and low, 

Fall by Death's impartial blow — 

God perhaps in kindness will 

Snatch us from some coming ill ; 

Death may kindly waft us o'er 

To a milder, happier shore. 

— But, dear Jamie! after a', 

What I've said's not worth a straw ; 

What is't worth to moralise 

What we never can practise ? 

As for me, with a' my skill, 

Passion leads me as she will ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 105 

And resolves, laid down to-day, 
Ere to-morrow, 're done away : 
— Then, let's ever cheery live, 
Do our best, and never grieve ; 
Still let Friendship's warmest tie 
A' deficiencies supply, 
And, while favour'd by the Nine, 
I your laurels will entwine. 



EPISTLE TO JAMES BARR, 

WHEREVER HE MAY BE FOUND.— MARCH, 1804. 

Gude Pibrocharian, jorum-jirger, 
Say, hae ye turn'd an Antiburgher ? 
Or lang-fac'd Presbyterian elder, 
Deep read in wiles o' gath'ring siller ? 
Or cauld, splenetic solitair, 
Resolv'd to herd wi' man nae mair ? 

As to the second, I've nae fear for't ; 
For siller, faith ! ye ne'er did care for't, 
Unless to help a needfu' body, 
And get an antrin glass o' toddy. 
But what the black mischief's come owre you ? 
These three months I've been speiring for you, 
Till e'en the Muse, wi' downright grieving, 
Has worn her chafts as thin's a shaving. 
Say, hae ye ta'en a tramp to Lon'on, 
In Co. wi' worthy auld Buchanan,* 
Wha mony a mile wad streek his shanks, 
To hae a crack wi' Josie Banks 
Concerning " Shells, and birds, and metals, 
Moths, spiders, butterflies, and beetles." 

* A much respected naturalist in the west country. — AUTHOR 



106 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

For you, I think ye'll cut a figure, 
WP king o' pipers, Male. M'Gregor, 
And wi' your clarion, flute, and fiddle, 
Will gar their southron heart-strings diddle* 

Or are ye through the kintra whisking, 
Accoutr'd wi' the sock and buskin, 
Thinking to climb to wealth and fame, 
By adding Roscius to your name ? 
Frae thoughts o' that, pray keep abeigh ! 
Ye're far owre auld, and far owre heigh ,• 
Since in thir novel-hunting days, 
There's nane but bairns can act our plays.* 
At twal-year auld, if ye had try'd it, 
I doubtna' but ye might succeedet ; 
But full-grown buirdly chields like you— 
Quite monst'rous, man, 'twill never do ! 

Or are ye gane, as there are few sic, 
For teaching of a band o' music ? 
O, hear auld Scotland's fervent pray'rs ! 
And teach her genuine native airs ; 
Whilk simply play'd devoid o' art, 
Thrill through the senses to the heart. 

Play, when you'd rouse the patriot's saul, 
True valour's tune, " The garb of Gaul ;" 
And, when laid low in glory's bed, 
Let, " Roslin castle," soothe his shade. 

" The bonny Bush aboon Traquair,** 
Its every accent breathes despair ; 



* The allusion here is to the young Roscius, Master Betty, 
whose juvenile performances for a time threw even first-rate 
actors into the shade. — Ed. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 107 

And " Ettrick Ranks," celestial strain ! 
Mak's summer's gloaming mair serene ; 
And, how sweet the plaintive muse, 
Amang " the Broom o' Cowdenknowes I* 

To hear the love-lorn swain complain, 
Lone, on " The Braes o' Ballendine ;" 
It e'en might melt the dortiest she, 
That ever sklented scornfV e'e. 

When Beauty tries her vocal pow'rs 
Amang the green-wood's echoing bow'rs, 
" The bonny Birks of Fnvermay," 
Might mend a seraph's sweetest lay. 

Then, should grim Care invest your castle, 
Just knock him down wi' " Willie Wastle ;" 
And rant blithe " Lumps o' pudding owre him," 
And, for his dirge, sing " Tuliochgorum." 

When Orpheus charm'd his wife frae hell, 
'Twas nae Scotch tune he play'd sae well ; 
Else had the worthy auld wire-scraper 
Been keepet for his deilship's piper. 

Or if ye're turn'd a feather'd fop, 
Light dancing upon fashion's top, 
Wi' lofty brow and selfish e'e, 
Despising low-clad dogs like me ; 
Uncaring your contempt or favour, 
Sweet butterfly, adieu for ever ! 
But, hold — I'm wrong to doubt your sense ; 
For pride proceeds from ignorance. 

If peace of mind lay in fine clothes, 
I'd be the first of fluttering beaux, 



108 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 



And strut as proud as ony peacock 
That ever craw'd on tap o' hay-cock; 
And ere I'd know one vexing thought, 
Get dollar-buttons on my coat, 
Wi' a' the lave o' fulsome trash on, 
That constitutes a man o* fashion. 
Oh ! grant me this, kind Providence, 
A moderate, decent competence ; 
Thou'lt see me smile in independence, 
Above weak-sauPd, pride-born ascendence. 

But whether ye're gane to teach the whistle, 
'Midst noise and rough reg'mental bustle ; 
Or gane to strut upon the stage, 
Smit wi' the mania o' the age ; 
Or, Scotch-man like, hae tramp'd abreed, 
To yon big town far south the Tweed ; 
Or douring in the hermit's cell, 
Unblessing and unblest yoursel' — 
In Gude's name write ! — tak' up your pen, 
A' how ye're doing let me ken. 
Sae, hoping quickly your epistle, 
Adieu ! thou genuine son of song and whistle. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

We had a concert here short syne ; 
Oh, man ! the music was divine, 
Baith plaintive sang, and merry glee, 
In a' the soul of harmony. 
When Smith and Stuart leave this earth, 
The gods, in token o' their worth, 
Will welcome them at heaven's portals, 
The brightest, truest, best o' mortals ; 
Apollo proud, as weel he may 
Will walk on tip-toe a' that day ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 109 



While a' the Muses kindred claim, 
Remembering what they've done for them. 



EPISTLE TO JAMES SCADLOCK* 

THEN AT PERTH.— JUNE, 1804. 

Let those who never felt its flame, 
Say friendship is an empty name ; 

Such selfish, cauld philosophy, 

For ever I disclaim : 

It soothes the soul, with grief opprest, 
Half-cures the care-distemper'd breast, 
And in the jocund happy hour, 
Gives joy a higher zest. 

All nature sadden'd at our parting hour, 

Winds plaintive howl'd, clouds, weeping, drop't a show'r ; 

Our fields look'd dead — as if they'd said, 

"We ne'er shall see him more." 

Though fate and fortune threw their darts, 
Envying us your high deserts, 

They well might tear you from our arms, 

But never from our hearts. 

When spring buds forth in vernal show'rs, 
When summer comes array'd in flow'rs, 

Or autumn kind, from Ceres' horn, 

Her gratetul bounty pours ; 

* James Scadlock, a copperplate engraver, wrote e * The 
Scottish Exile/' and other pieces, which have been published. 
In the words of John Struthers, in his Essay on Scottish Song 
writers, "he died July the 4th, 1818, lamented by his friends, 
respected by his neighbours, and, probably, without an enemy in 
the world."— Ed. 



110 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Or bearded winter curls his brow — 

I'll often fondly think on you, 

And on our happy days and nights, 
With pleasing back-cast view. 

If e'er in musing mood you stray, 
Alang the banks of classic Tay, 

Think on our walks by Stanley tow'r, 

And steep GlenifFer brae. 

Think on our langsyne happy hours, 
Spent where the burn wild rapid pours, 

And o'er the horrid dizzy steep, 

Dashes her mountain-stores. 

Think on our walks by sweet Greenlaw, 
By woody hill, and birken shaw, 

Where nature strews her choicest sweets* 

To mak the landscape braw. 

And think on rural Ferguslie, 

Its plantings green, and flow'ry lee ; — 

Such fairy scenes, though distant far, 

May please the mental e'e. 

Yon Mentor, Geordie Zimmerman, 
Agrees exactly with our plan, 

That partial hours of solitude 

Exalt the soul of man. 

So, oft retir'd from strife and din, 
Let's shun the jarring ways of men, 

And seek serenity and peace 

By stream and woody glen. 

But ere a few short summers gae, 
Your friend will meet his kindred clay, 

For fell disease tugs at my breast, 

To hurry me away. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. Ill 

Yet while life's bellows bear to blaw, 
Till life's last lang-fetch'd breath I draw, 

I'll often fondly think on you, 

And mind your kindness a'. 

Now, fare-ye-weel ! Still may ye find 
A friend congenial to your mind, 

To share your joys, and half your woes, 

Warm, sympathizing, kind. 



EPISTLE TO WILLIAM THOMSON, 

AT OVERTON. — JUNE, 1805. 

Dear Will, my much respected frien', 
I send you this to let you ken, 
That, though at distance fate hath set you, 
Your friends in Paisley don't forget you : 
But often think on you, far lone, 
Amang the braes of Overton. 

Our social club continues yet, 
Perpetual source of mirth and wit ; 
Our rigid rules admit but few, 
Yet still we'll keep a chair for you. 

A country life I've oft envied, 
Where love, and truth, and peace preside ; 
Without temptations to allure, 
Your days glide on, unstain'd and pure ; 
Nae midnight revels waste your health, 
Nor greedy landlord drains your wealth ; 
You're never fash't wi' whisky fever, 
Nor dizzy pow, nor dulness ever, 
But breathe the halsome caller air, 
Remote from aught that genders care. 
k 2 



112 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

I needna' tell how much I lang 
To hear your rural Scottish sang ; 
To hear you sing your heath-clad braes, 
Your jocund nights, and happy days ; 
And lilt wi' glee the blithsome morn, 
When dew-draps pearl every thorn ; 
When larks pour forth the early sang, 
And lintwhites chant the whins amang, 
And pyets hap frae tree to tree, 
Teaching their young anes how to flee ; 
While, frae the mavis to the wren, 
A' warble sweet in bush or glen. 

In town we scarce can find occasion, 
To note the beauties o' creation, 
But study mankind's difPrent dealings, 
Their virtues, vices, merits, failings. 
Unpleasing task! compar'd wi' yours ; 
You range the hills 'mang mountain-flow'rs, 
And view, afar, the smoky town, 
More blest than all its riches were your own. 

A lang epistle I might scribble, 
But aibiins ye will grudge the trouble 
Of reading sic low hamewart rhyme, 
And sae it's best to quat in time : 
Sae I, with soul sincere and fervent, 
Am still your trustful friend and servant 



EPISTLE TO WILLIAM WYLIE. 

JANUARY, 1806. 

Dear kindred sanl, thanks to the cause 
First made us ken each ither ; 

Ca't fate, or chance, I carena whilk, 
To me it brought a brither. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 113 

Thy furthy, kindly, takin' gait ; — 

Sure every gude chiel' likes thee, 
An* bad-luck wring his thrawart heart, 

Wha snarling e'er wou'd vex thee. 

Though mole-e'et Fortune's partial hand, 

O' clink may keep thee bare o't ; 
Of what thou hast, pale Misery 

Receives, unask'd, a share o't. 

Thou gi'est, without ae hank'rin thought, 

Or cauld, self-stinted wish ; . 
E'en winter-rlnger'd Avarice 

Approves thee with a blush. 

If Grief e'er make thee her pack-horse, 

Her leaden load to carry't, 
Shove half the burden on my back, 

I'll do my best to bear it. 

Gude kens we a' hae faults anew, 

'Tis Friendship's task to cure 'em, 
But still she spurns the critic-view, 

An' bids us to look o'er 'em. 

When Death performs his beadle part, 

An' summons thee to heaven, 
By virtue of thy warm kind heart, 

Thy faults will be forgiven. 

And should'st thou live to see thy friend, 

Borne lifeless on the bier, 
I ask of thee for epitaph, 

One kind elegiac tear. 



k3 



114 WORKS OF TANNABILL. 

EPISTLE TO ALEXANDER BORLAND,* 

GLASGOW.— FEBRUARY, 1806. 

Retir'd, disgusted, from the tavern roar, 

Where strong-lung'd Ignorance does highest soar ; 

Where silly ridicule is pass'd for wit, 

And shallow Laughter takes her gaping fit ; 

Here lone I sit, in musing melancholy, 

Resolv'd for aye to shun the court of Folly ; 

For, from whole years' experience in her train, 

One hour of joy brings twenty hours of pain. 

Now since I'm on the would-be-better key, 

The Muse oft whispers me to write to thee; 

Not that she means a self-debasing letter, 

But merely show there's hope I may turn better ; 

That what stands bad to my account of ill, 

You may set down to passion, not to will. 

The fate-scourg'd exile, destin'd still to roam 

Through desert wilds, far from his early home, — 

If some fair prospect meet his sorrowing eyes, 

Like that he own'd beneath his native skies, 

Sad recollection, murdering relief, 

He bursts in all the agonies of grief; 

Mem'ry presents the volume of his care, 

And 4< harrows up his soul" with " such things were :" 

'Tis so in life, when Youth folds up his page, 

And turns the leaf to dark, blank, joyless Age, 

Where sad Experience speaks in language plain, 

Her thoughts of bliss, and highest hopes were vain ; 

O'er present ills I think I see her mourn, 

And " weep past joys that never will return." 



* This is the friend of whom mention is made towards the end 
of the Memoir of Tannahill : he died some years ago. — Ed. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 115 

Then come, my friend, while yet in life's gay noon, 
Ere grief's dark clouds obscure our summer sun, 
Ere winter's sleety blasts around us howl, 
And chill our every energy of soul, 
Let us look back, retrace the ways we've trod, 
Mark virtue's paths from guilty pleasure's road, 
And, 'stead of wand'ring in a devious maze, 
Mark some few precepts for our future days. 

I mind still well, when but a trifling boy, 
My young heart flutter'd with a savage joy, 
As with my sire I wanderd through the wood, 
And found the mavis' clump-lodg'd callow brood ; 
I tore them thence, exulting o'er my prize ; 
My father bade me list the mother's cries ; 
" So thine would wail," he said, " if reft of thee :" — 
It was a lesson of humanity. 

Not to recount our every early joy, 
When all was happiness without alloy, 
Nor tread again each flow'ry field we trac'd, 
Light as the silk-wing'd butterflies we chas'd ; 
Ere villain-falsehood taught the glowing mind 
To look with cold suspicion on mankind — 
Let's pass the valley of our younger years, 
And further up-hill mark what now appears. 

We see the sensualist, fell vice's slave, 
Fatigu'd, worn-out, sink to an early grave : 
We see the slave of av'rice grind the poor, 
His thirst for gold increasing with his store ; 
Pack-horse of fortune, all his days are care, 
Her burdens bearing to his spendthrift heir. 

Next view the spendthrift, joyous o'er his purse, 
Exchanging all his guineas for remorse; 
On pleasure's flow'r-deck'd barge away he's borne, 
Supine, till every flow'r starts up a thorn ; 



116 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

Then all his pleasures fly, like air-borne bubbles — 

He ruin'd sinks "amidst a sea of troubles." 

Hail, Temperance ! thou'rt wisdom's first, best lore ; 

The sage in ev'ry age does thee adore ; 

Within thy pale we taste of ev'ry joy, 

O'erstepping that, our highest pleasures cloy ; 

The heart-enliv'ning, friendly, social bowl, 

To rapt'rous ecstasy exalts the soul ; 

But when to midnight hour we keep it up, 

Next morning feels the poison of the cup. 

Though fate forbade the gifts of schoolmen mine, 
With classic art to write the polish'd line, 
Yet miners oft must gather earth with gold, 
And truth may strike, though e'er so roughly told. 

If thou in aught would'st rise to eminence, 
Show not the faintest shadow of pretence, 
Else busy Scandal, with her hundred tongues, 
Will quickly find thee in ten thousand wrongs ; 
Each strives to tear his neighbour's honour down, 
As if detracting something from his own. 
Of all the ills with which mankind are curst, 
An envious, discontented mind's the worst : 
There muddy Spleen exalts her gloomy throne, 
Marks all conditions better than her own : 
Hence Defamation spreads her ant-bear tongue, 
And grimly pleas'd, feeds on another's wrong. 
Curse on the wretch, who, when his neighbour's blest, 
Erects his peace-destroying, snaky crest ! 
And him who sits in surly, sullen mood, 
Repining at a fellow-mortal's good ! 
Man owns so little of true happiness, 
That curst be he who makes that little less ! 

The zealot thinks he'll go to heaven direct 
Adhering to the tenets of his sect, 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. \1\ 

E'en though his practice lie in this alone, 
To rail at all persuasions but his own. 

In judging, still let moderation guide; 
O'erheated zeal is certain to mislead. 
First bow to God in heart- warm gratitude; 
Next do our utmost for the general good. 
In spite of all the forms which men devise, 
'Tis there where real solid wisdom lies ; 
And impious is the man who claims dominion, 
To damn his neighbour diff'ring in opinion. 

When suppliant Misery greets thy wand'ring eye, 
Although in public, pass not heedless by ; 
Distress impels her to implore the crowd, 
For that denied within her lone abode ; 
Give thou the trifling pittance which she craves, 
Though ostentation calPd by prudent knaves : 
So conscience will a rich reward impart, 
And finer feelings play around thy heart. 

When Wealth with arrogance exalts his brow, 
And reckons Poverty a wretch most low, 
Let good intentions dignify thy soul, 
And conscious rectitude will crown the whole : 
Hence indigence will independence own, 
And soar above the haughty despot's frown. 

Still to thy lot be virtuously resign 'd ; 
Above all treasures prize thy peace of mind ; 
Then let not envy rob thy soul of rest, 
Nor discontent e'er harbour in thy breast. 
Be not too fond of popular applause, 
Which often echoes in a villain's cause, 
Whose specious sophistry gilds his deceit, 
Till pow'r abus'd, in time shows forth the cheat : 
Yet be't thy pride to bear an honest fame ; 
More dear than life watch over thy good name ; 



1 1 8 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

For lie, poor man ! who has no wish to gain it, 
Despises all the virtues which attain it. 

Of friendship, still be secrecy the test, ' 
This maxim let be 'graven in my breast : 
Whate'er a friend enjoins me to conceal, 
I'm weak, I'm base, if I the same reveal ; 
Let honour, acting as a pow'rful spell, 
Suppress that itching fondness still to tell ; 
Else, unthank'd chronicle, the cunning's tool, 
The world will stamp me for a gossip fool. 
Yet let us act an honest open part, 
Nor curb the warm effusions of the heart, 
Which, naturally virtuous, discommends 
Aught mean or base, even in our dearest friends. 

But why this long disjointed scrawl to thee, 
Whose every action is a law to me ; 
Whose every deed proclaims thy noble mind, 
Industrious, independent, just, and kind. 
Methinks I hear thee say, " Each fool may teach, 
Since now my whim-led friend's begun to preach !" 
But this first essay of my preaching strain, 
Hear, and accept for friendship's sake. Amen. 



EPISTLE TO JAMES BUCHANAN,* 

KILBARCHAN.— AUGUST, 1806. 

My gude auld friend on Locher banks, 
Your kindness claims my warmest thanks ; 

* This is the "worthy auld Buchanan," celebrated as a na 
turalist in the epistle to Barr, p. 1 05. He was also something of an 
antiquary, and, like Burns's friend, Captain Grose, was possessed 
of "a routh o' auld nick-nackets." He died lately at an ad- 
vanced age — Ed. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 119 

Yet thanks is but a draff-cheap phrase, 
Of little value now a-days ; 
Indeed 'tis hardly worth the heeding, 
Unless to show a body's breeding. 
Yet mony a poor, doil't, servile body, 
Will scrimp his stomach of its crowdy, 
And pride to run a great man's erran's, 
And feed on smiles and sour cheese-parin's, 
And think himsei' nae sraa' sheep shank, 
Rich laden wi' his Lordship's thank : 
The sodger too, for a' his troubles, 
His hungry wames, and bloody hubbies, 
His agues, rheumatisms, cramps, 
Receiv'd in plashy winter camps, 
O blest reward ! at last he gains 
His sov'reign's thanks for a' his pains. 

Thus, though 'mang first of friends I rank you, 
'Twere but sma' compliment to thank you ; 
Yet, lest ye think me here ungratefu', 
Of hatefu' names, a name most hatefu', 
The neist time that ye come to toun, 
By a' the pow'rs beneath the moon ! 
I'll treat you wi' a Highland gill,* 
Though it should be my hindmost fill. 

Though in the bustling town, the Muse 
Has gather'd little feck of news : 
— 'Tis said, the Court of Antiquarians 
Has split on some great point of variance ; 

* A Highland gill — a phrase jocularly used in the Lowlands of 
Scotland to mean double the quantity of a common gill, — half 
a mutchkin. Thus Burns says — 

But bring- a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, such is royal George's will, 

And there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Tvva at a blow. 



120 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

For ane has got, in gowden box., 
The spectacles of auld John Knox ; 
A second proudly thanks his fate wi* 
The hindmost pen that Nelson wrate wi* ; 
A third ane owns an antique rare, 
A sape-brush made of mermaid's hair ! 
But, niggard wights, they a' refuse 'em, 
These precious relics, to the museum, 
Whilk selfish, mean, illegal deeds, 
Hae set them a' at loggerheads. 

Sure taste refin'd, and public spirit, 
Stand next to genius in merit ; 
I'm proud to see your warm regard, 
For Caledonia's dearest bard ; 
Of him ye've got sae gude a painting,* 
That nocht but real life is wanting. 
I think, yon rising genius, Tannock, 
May gain a niche in Fame's heigh winnock 
There, with auld Rubens, placed sublime, 
Look down upon the wreck of time. 

I ne'er, as yet, hae found a patron, 
For, scorn betill't! I hate a' flatt'rin' ; 
Besides, I never had an itching, 
To slake about a great man's kitchen, 
And, like a spaniel, lick his dishes, 
And come, and gang, just to his wishes; 
Yet, studious to give worth its due, 
I pride to praise the like of you, 
Gude chields, replete wi' sterling sense 
Wha wi' their worth mak' nae pretence. 
Aye — there's my worthy friend, M'Math, 
I'll lo'e him till my latest breath, 

* Portrait of Burns, painted by Mr James Tannoek, now of 
London, for the Kilbarchan Burns' Society. — Ed. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 121 



And like a traitor wretch be hang'd, 
Before I'd hear that fellow wrang'd ; 
His ev'ry action shows his mind, 
Humanely noble, bright, and kind ; 
And here's the worth o't, doubly rootit, 
He never speaks ae word about it ! 
— My compliments an' warm gude-will, 
To Maisters Simpson, Barr, and Lyle; 
Wad rav'ning Time but spare my pages, 
They'd tell the warld in after ages, 
That it, to me, was wealth and fame, 
To be esteem'd by chields like them. 

Time, thou all-devouring bear ! 
Hear — " List, O list" my ardent pray'r ! 

1 crave thee here, on bended knee, 
To let my dear-lov'd pages be ! 

take thy sharp-nail'd, nibbling elves, 
To musty scrolls on college shelves ! 
There, with dry treatises on law. 
Feast, cram, and gorge thy greedy maw ; 
But grant, amidst thy thin-sown mercies, 
To spare, O spare my darling verses ! 

Could I but up through hist'ry wimple 
With Robertson, or sage Dalrymple ; 
Or had I half the pith and lear 
Of a Mackenzie, or a Blair ; 

1 aiblins then might tell some story, 
Wad show the Muse in bleezing glory ; 
But scrimpt o' time, and lear scholastic, 
My lines limp on in Hudibrastic, 

Till Hope, grown sick, flings down her claim, 

And drops her dreams of future fame. 

— Yes, O waesucks ! should I be vauntie ? 

My Muse is just a Rosinante, 

She stammers -forth with hilching canter, 

Sagely intent on strange adventure, 

L 



122 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Yet, sae uncouth in garb and feature, 
She seems the Fool of Literature. 
But lest the critic's birsie besom, 
Soop affthis cant of egotism, 
I'll sidelins hint — na, bauldly tell, 
I whiles think something o' mysel': 
Else, wha the deil wad fash to scribble, 
Expecting scorn for a' his trouble ? 
Yet, lest dear self should be mista'en, 
I'll fling the bridle o'er the mane ; 
For after a', I fear this jargon, 
Is but a Willie Glasford bargain.* 



EPISTLE TO ROBERT ALLAN, 

kilb archan. — 1 807. 

Dear Robin, 

The Muse is now a wee at leisure, 
And sits her doun wi' meikle pleasure, 
To skelp you affa blaud o' rhyme, 
As near's she can to true sublime ; 
But here's the rub, — poor poet-devils, 
We're compass'd round wi' mony evils ; 
We jerk oursel's into a fever 
To give the world something clever, 
And after a' perhaps we muddle 
In vile prosaic stagnant puddle. 



* William Glasford, a late writer of doggerel verses, which 
he hawked in pennyworths amongst the inhabitants of Paisley, 
under the title of "Poems on Engaging Subjects." The reader 
may be amused on being made aware of some of those subjects 
which the author considered so captivating. One is ' On the 
Police of Paisley ;' another * On Creation ;' a third * On War, 
France, and Bonaparte ;' and a fourth * On the New Light.' 
—Ed. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 123 

For me — I seldom choose a subject, 
My rhymes are oft without an object ; 

I let the Muse e'en tak' her win', 
And dash awa' through thick and thin : 
For Method's sic a servile creature, 
She spurns the wilds o' simple nature, 
And paces on, wi' easy art, 
A lang day's journey frae the heart : — 
Sae what comes uppermaist you'll get it, 
Be't good or ill, for you I write it. 

How fares my worthy friend, the bard ? 
Be peace and honour his reward ! 
May every ill that gars us fyke, 
Bad webs, toom pouches, and sic like, 
And ought that would his spirit bend, 
Be ten miles distant frae my friend. 
Alas ! this wicked endless war, 
Rul'd by some vile malignant star, 
Has sunk poor Britain low indeed, 
Has robb'd Industry o' her bread, 
And dash'd the sair-won cog o' crowdy, 
Frae mony an honest eident body ; 
While Genius, dying through neglect, 
Sinks down amidst the general wreck. 

Just like twa cats tied tail to tail, 

They worry at it, tooth and nail ; 

They girn, they bite in deadly wrath 

And what is't for ? For nought, in faith ! 

Wee Lourie Frank,* wi' brazen snout, 

Nae doubt would like to scart us out, 

For proud John Bull, aye us'd to hone him, 

We'll no gi'e o'er to spit upon him ; 

* A personification of France — Ed. 



\2i WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 



But Lourie's raised to sic degree, 
John would be wise to let him be ; 
Else aiblins, as he's wearing auF 
Frank yet may tear him spawl frae spawl, 
For wi' the mony chirts he's gotten, 
I fear his constitutions rotten. 

But while the bullying blades o' Europe 
Are boxing ither to a syrup, 
Let's mind oursel's as weel's we can, 
And live in peace, like man arid man, 
And no cast out, and fecht like brutes 
Without a cause for our disputes. 

When I read o'er your kind epistle 
I didna ' dance,' nor l sing/ nor ' whistle, 
But jump'd and cried, Huzza, huzza! 
Like Robin Roughhead in the play : — 
But to be serious — jest aside, 
I felt a glow o' secret pride, 
Thus to be roos'd by ane like you, 
Yet doubted if sic praise was due, 
Till self thus reason'd in the matter : 
Ye ken that Robin scorns to flatter, 
And ere he'd prostitute his quill, 
He'd rather burn his rhyming mill — 
Enough! I cried — I've gain'd my end, 
Since 1 ha'e pleased my worthy friend. 

My sangs are now before the warl , 
And some may praise, and some may snarl ; 
They hae their faults, yet I can tell 
Nane sees them clearer than mysel' ; 
But still I think they too inherit 
Auiang the dross some sparks o' merit. 

Then come, my dear Parnassian brither ! 
Let's lay our poet-heads thegither, 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 125 

And sing our ain sweet native scenes, 
Our streams, our banks, and rural plains, 
Our woods, our shaws, and flow'ry holms, 
And mountains clad wi' purple blooms, 
Wi' burnies bickerin' doun their braes, 
Reflecting back the sunny rays : 
Ye've Semple Woods,* and Calder Glen,* 
And Locher Bank,* sweet fairy den ! 
And Auchenames,* a glorious theme ! 
Where Crawfordf liv'd, of deathless name, 
Where SempillJ sued his lass to win, 
And Nelly rose and let him in ; 
Where Habbie SimpsonJ lang did play, 
The first o' pipers in his day ; 
And though aneath the turf langsyne, 
Their sangs and tunes shall never tyne. 

Sae, Robin, briskly ply the Muse; 
She warms our hearts, expands our views, 
Gars every sordid passion flee, 
And waukens every sympathy. 

Now wishing Fate may never tax you, 
Wi' cross, nor loss, to thraw and vex you, 
But keep you hale till ninety-nine, 
Till you and your's in honour shine, 

* Places in the neighbourhood of Kilbarchan. — Ed. 

f William Crawford, u whom," says Ritson, " the pastoral beau- 
ties and elegant language of * Tweedside' and the pathetic ten- 
derness of ' My dearie, an ye dee/ will ever place in the first rank 
of lyric poets." He also wrote ' The Bush aboon Traquair' and 
some other songs marked C. in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany. 
He died young, about 1732. — Ed. 

| Francis Sempill of Beltrees, born about 1630, the reputed 
author of the song here alluded to, and also of ' Maggie Lauder,' 
* The Blythsome Bridal,' and other pieces — Ed. 

§ The famous piper of Kilbarchan, on whom Robert Sempill, 
father of Francis, wrote the well-known Elegy. — Ed. 



126 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

Shall ever be my earnest pray'r, 
While I've a friendly wish to spare. 



TOWSER: 

A TRUE TALE. 

" Dogs are honest creatures, 
Ne'er fawn on any that they love not ; 
And I'm a friend to dogs, 
They ne'er betray their master;," 

In mony an instance, without doubt, 
The man may copy from the brute, 
And by th' example grow much wiser ; — 
Then read the short memoirs of Towser. 

With def'rence to our great Lavaters, 
Wha judge a' mankind by their features, 
There's mony a smiling, pleasant-fac'd cock, 
That wears a heart no worth a castock ; 
While mony a visage, antic, droll, 
O'erveils a noble, gen'rous soul. 
With Towser this was just the case, 
He had an ill-fa ur'd tawted face, 
His make was something like a messan, 
But big, and quite unprepossessing 
His master coft him frae some fallows, 
Wha had him doom'd unto the gallows, 
Because (sae hap'd poor Towser's lot,) 
He wadna tear a comrade's throat ; 
Yet in affairs of love or honour, 
He'd stand his part amang a hun'er, 
And where'er fighting was a merit, 
He never fail'd to show his spirit. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 12 < 

He never girn d in neighbour's face, 
With wild ill-natur'd scant of grace ; 
Nor e'er accosted ane with smiles, 
Then, soon as turn'd, would bite his heels ; 
Nor ever kent the courtier art, 
To fawn with rancour at his heart : 
Nor aught kent he of cankert quarreling, 
Nor snarling just for sake of snarling, 
Ye'd pinch him sair afore he'd growl, 
Whilk shows he had a mighty soul. 

But what adds maistly to his fame, 
And will immortalize his name — 
* Immortalize ! — presumptuous wight ! 
Thy lines are dull as darkest night, 
Without ae spark o' wit or glee, 
To licht them through futurity." 
E'en be it sae ; — poor Towser's story, 
Though lamely tauld, will speak his glory. 

'Twas in the month o' cauld December, 
When nature's fire seem'd just an ember, 
And growling winter bellow'd forth 
In storms and tempests frae the north, 
When honest Towser's loving master, 
Regardless o' the surly bluster, 
Set out to the neist burrow town, 
To buy some needments of his own, 
And, case some purse-pest should way-lay him, 
He took his trusty servant wi' him. 

His business done, 'twas near the gloaming, 
And aye the King o' Storms was foaming : 
The doors did ring — lum-pigs down tumbl'd, 
The strands gush'd big — the sinks loud rumbl'd ; 
Auld grannies spread their looves, and sigh'd, 
Wi' " O Sirs ! what an awfu' night !" — 



128 WOEKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Poor Towser shook his sides a' draigl'd, 

And's master grudg'd that he had taigl'd ; 

But, wi' his merchandizing load, 

Come weel, come wae, he took the road. 

Now clouds drave o'er the fields like drift ; 

Night flung her black cleuk o'er the lift ; 

And through the naked trees and hedges, 

The horrid storm, redoubl'd, rages ; 

And, to complete his piteous case, 

It blew directly in his face. 

Whiles 'gainst the foot-path stabs he thumped, 

Whiles o'er the coots in holes he plumped ; 

But on he gaed, and on he waded, 

Till he at length turn'd faint and jaded. 

To gang he could nae langer bide, 

But lay down by the bare dyke-side. — 

Now, wife and bairns rush'd on his soul, 

He groan'd — poor Towser loud did howl, 

And, mourning, cower'd down beside him ; 

But, Oh ! his master couldna heed him, 

For now his senses 'gan to dozen, 

His vera life-streams maist were frozen, 

An't seem'd as if the cruel skies, 

Exulted o'er their sacrifice ; 

For fierce the winds did o'er him hiss, 

And dash'd the sleet on his cauld face. 

As on a rock, far, far frae land, 
Twa shipwreck'd sailors shiv'ring stand, 
If chance a vessel they descry, 
Their hearts exult with instant joy ; 
Sae was poor Towser joy'd to hear, 
The tread of travelers drawing near, 
He ran, and yowl'd, and fawn'd upon 'em. 
But couldna make them understand him. 
Till, tugging at the foremost's coat, 
He led them to the mournfu' spot, 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 129 

Where, cauld and stiff, his master lay, 
To the rude storm a helpless prey. 

With Caledonian sympathy, 
They bore him kindly on the way, 
Until they reach'd a cottage bien ; 
They tauld the case, were welcom'd in ; 
The rousing fire, the cordial drop, 
Restor'd him soon to life and hope ; 
Fond raptures beam'd in Towser's eye, 
And antic gambols spake his joy. 

Wha reads this simple tale, may see 
The worth of sensibility, 
And learn frae it to be humane — 
In Towser's life he sav'd his ain. 



BAUDRONS AND THE HEN BIRD: 

A FABLE. 

Some folks there are of such behaviour, 
They'll cringe themselves into your favour, 
And when you think their friendship staunch is. 
They'll tear your character to inches: 
T enforce this truth as well's I'm able, 
Please, reader, to peruse a fable. 

Deborah, an auld wealthy maiden, 
With spleen, remorse, and scandal laden, 
Sought out a solitary spat, 
To live in quiet with her cat, 
A meikle, sonsy, tabby she ane, 
(For Deborah abhorr'd a he ane ;) 
And in the house, to be a third, 
She gat a wee hen chuckie bird. 



130 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Soon as our slee nocturnal ranger, 
Beheld the wee bit timid stranger, 
She thus began, with friendly fraise : 
" Come ben, puir thing, and warm your taes ; 
This weather's cauld, and wet, and dreary, 
I'm wae to gee you look sae eerie ; 
Sirs ! how your tail, and wings are dreeping ! 
Ye've surely been in piteous keeping ; 
See, here's my dish, come tak' a pick o't, 
But, 'deed, I fear there's scarce a lick o't." 

Sic sympathizing words of sense, 
Soon gain'd poor chuckie's confidence ; 
And while Deborah mools some crumbs, 
Auld baudrons sits and croodling thrums : 
In short, the twa soon grew sae pack, 
Chuck roosted upon pussie's back ! 
But ere sax wee short days were gane, 
When baith left in the house alane, 
Then thinks the hypocritic sinner, 
Now, now's my time to ha'e a dinner: 
Sae, with a squat, a spring, and squall, 
She tore poor chuckie spawl frae spawl. 

Then mind this maxim : Rash acquaintance 
Aft leads to ruin and repentance. 



THE AMBITIOUS MITE: 



When Hope persuades, and Fame inspires us, 
And Pride with warm ambition fires us, 
Let Reason instant seize the bridle, 
And wrest us frae the passions' guidal ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 131 

Else, like the hero of our fable, 
We'll aft be plung'd into a habble. 

\ 'Twas on a bonny simmer day, 
When a* the insect tribes were gay, 
Some journeying o'er the leaves of roses, 
Some brushing thrang their wings and noses, 
Some wallowing sweet in bramble blossom, 
In Luxury's saft downy bosom ; 
While ithers of a lower order, 
Were perch'd on plantain leaf's smooth border, 
Wha frae their twa-inch steeps look'd down, 
And view'd the kintra far around. 

Ae pridefu' elf, amang the rest, 
Wha's pin-point heart bumpt 'gainst his breast, 
To work some mighty deed of fame, 
That would immortalize his name, 
Through future hours would hand him down, 
The wonder of an afternoon ; 
(For ae short day with them appears, 
As lang's our lengthen'd hunder years.) 

By chance, at hand, a bow'd horse hair 
Stood up six inches high in air ; 
He plann'd to climb this lofty arch, 
With philosophic deep research, 
To prove (which aft perplex their heads) 
What people peopled ither blades, 
Or from keen observation show, 
Whether they peopled were or no. 

Our tiny hero onward hies, 
Quite big with daring enterprise, 
Ascends the hair's curvatur'd side, 
Now pale with fear, now red with pride, 



132 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Now hanging pend'lous by the claw, 
Now glad at having 'scap'd a fa' ; 
What horrid dangers he came through, 
Would trifling seem for man to know ; 
Suffice, at length he reach'd the top, 
The summit of his pride and hope, 
And on his elevated station, 
Had plac'd himself for observation, 
When, puff — the wind did end the matter, 
And dash'd him in a horse-hoof gutter. 

Sae let the lesson gi'en us here, 
Keep each within his proper sphere, 
And when our fancies tak' their flight, 
Think on the wee ambitious mite. 



THE STORM. 



WRITTEN IN OCTOBER. 



Whilst the dark rains of autumn discolour the brook, 
And the rough winds of winter the woodlands deform, 

Here, lonely, I lean by the sheltering rock, 

A-list'ning the voice of the loud-howling storm. 

Now dreadfully furious it roars on the hill, 

The deep-groaning oaks seem all writhing with pain, 

Now awfully calm, for a moment 'tis still, 

Then bursting it howls and it thunders again. 

How cheerless and desert the fields now appear, 

Which so lately in summer's rich verdure were seen, 

And each sad drooping spray from its heart drops a tear, 
As seeming to weep its lost mantle of green. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 133 

See, beneath the rude wall of yon ruinous pile, 
From the merciless tempest the cattle have fled, 

And yon poor patient steed, at the gate by the stile, 
Looks wistfully home for his sheltering shed. 

Ah ! who would not feel for yon poor gipsy race, 
Peeping out from the door of the old roofless barn ; 

There my wandering fancy her fortunes might trace, 
And sour Discontent there a lesson might learn. 

Yet oft in my bosom arises the sigh, 

That prompts the warm wish distant scenes to explore ; 
Hope gilds the fair prospect with visions of joy, 

That happiness reigns on some far distant shore. 

But yon grey hermit-tree which stood lone on the moor, 
By the fierce driving blast to the earth is blown down ; 

So the lone houseless wand'rer, unheeded and poor. 
May fall unprotected, unpitied, unknown. 

See o'er the grey steep, down the deep craggy glen, 

Pours the brown foaming torrent, swelPd big with the rain ; 

It roars through the caves of its dark wizard den, 

Then, headlong, impetuous it sweeps through the plain. 

Now the dark heavy clouds have unbosom'd their stores, 
And far to the westward the welkin is blue, 

The sullen winds hiss as they die on the moors, 

And the sun faintly shines on yon bleak mountain's brow. 



THE RESOLVE. 

" Him who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise, 
The silence of neglect can ne'er appal." — Beattie. 

'Twas on a sunny Sabbath-day, 
When wark-worn bodies get their play, 
11 



134 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

I wander'd out, with serious look, 

To read twa page on Nature's book ; 

For lang I've thought, as little harm in 

Hearing a lively out-field sermon, 

Even though rowted by a stirk, 

As that aft bawl'd in crowded kirk, 

By some proud, stern, polemic wight, 

Wha cries, " My way alone is right I" 

Wha lairs himself in controversy, 

Then damns his neighbours without mercy, 

As if the fewer that were spar'd, 

These few would be the better ser'd. 

Now to my tale — digression o'er- — 

I wander'd out by Stanley tow'r, 

The lang grass on its tap did wave, 

Like weeds upon a warrior's grave, 

Whilk seem'd to mock the bloody braggers, 

And grow on theirs as rank's on beggars — 

But hold — I'm frae the point again : 

I wander'd up Gleniffer glen ; 

There, leaning 'gainst a mossy rock, 

I, musing, eyed the passing brook, 

That in it's murmurs seem'd to say, 

" 'Tis thus thyiife glides fast away : 

Observe the bubbles on my stream ; 

Like them, fame is* an empty dream ; 

They blink a moment to the sun, 

Then burst, and are for ever gone : 

So fame's a bubble of the mind ; 

Possess'd, 'tis nought but empty wind — 

No courtly gem e'er pnrchas'd dearer, 

And ne'er can satisfy the wearer. 

Let them wha hae a bleezing share o't, 

Confess the truth, they sigh for mair o% 

Then let contentment be thy cheer, 

And never soar aboon thy sphere : 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 135 

Rude storms assail the mountain's brow 
That lightly skiff the vale below." 

A gaudy rose was growing near, 
Proud, tow'ring on its leafy brier ; 
In fancy's ear it seem'd to say — 
" Sir, have you seen a flow'r so gav ? 
The poets in my praise combine, 
Comparing Chloe's charms to mine ; 
The sunbeams for my favour sue me, 
And dark-brow'd Night comes down to woo me ; 
But when I shrink from his request, 
He draps his tears upon my breast, 
And in his misty cloud sits wae, 
Till chas'd away by rival day : 
That streamlet's grov'lling grunting fires me, 
Since no ane sees me, but admires me : 
See yon bit violet 'neath my view. 
Wee sallow thing, its nose is blue ! 
And that bit primrose 'side the breckan, 
Poor yellow ghaist, it seems forsaken ! 
The sun ne'er throws ae transient glow, 
Unless when passing whether or no ; 
But wisely spurning ane so mean, 
He blinks on me from morn till e'en." 

To which the primrose calm replied : 
" Poor gaudy gowk, suppress your pride, 
For soon the strong flow'r-sweeping blast, 
Shall strew your honours in the dust ; 
While I, beneath my lowly bield, 
Will live and bloom frae harm conceal'd ; 
And while the heavy rain-drops pelt you, 
You'll maybe think on what I've tell't you." 
The rose, derisive, seem'd to sneer, 
And wav'd upon its bonny brier. 



136 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

Now darkening clouds began to gather, 
Presaging sudden change of weather ; 
I wander'd harne by Stanley green, 
Deep pond'ring what I'd heard and seen, 
Firmly resolv'd to shun from hence, 
The dangerous steeps of eminence; 
To drop this rhyming trade for ever, 
And creep through life, a plain day-plodding weaver. 



THE PARNASSIAD: 



A VISIONARY VIEW. 



Come, Fancy, thou hast ever been, 
In life's low vale, my ready frien', 

To cheer the clouded hour ; 
Though unfledg'd with scholastic law, 
Some visionary picture draw, 
With all thy magic pow'r : 
Now to the intellectual eye 

The glowing prospects rise, 
Parnassus' lofty summits high, 
Far tow'ring 'mid the skies ; 
Where vernally, eternally, 
Rich leafy laurels grow, 
With bloomy bays, through endless days, 
To crown the Poet's brow. 

Sure bold is he who dares to climb 
Yon awful jutting rock sublime, 

Who dares Pegasus sit, 
For should brain-ballast prove too light, 
He'll spurn him from his airy height, 

Down to oblivion's pit $ 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 137 

There, to disgrace for ever doom'd, 

To mourn his sick'ning woes, 
And weep that ever he presum'd, 
Above the vale of prose. 

Then, O beware ! with prudent care, 

Nor 'tempt the steeps of fame, 
And leave behind thy peace of mind, 
To gain a sounding name.* 

Behold !— yon ready rhyming carl, 
With flatt'ry fir'd, attracts the warP, 

By canker'd pers'nal satire ; 
He takes th' unthinking crowd's acclaim, 
For sterling proofs of lasting fame, 

And deals his inky spatter : 
Now see, he on Pegasus flies, 

With bluff important straddle ! 
He bears him midway up the skies, 
See, see, he's off the saddle ! 

He headlong tumbles, growls and grumbles, 

Down the dark abyss ; 
The noisy core that prais'd before, 
Now joins the general hiss. 

And see another vent'rer rise, 
Deep fraught with fulsome eulogies, 

To win his patron's favour ; 
One of those adulating things, 
That, dangling in the train of kings, 

Give guilt a splendid cover. 



* u The career of genius is rarely that of fortune, and often 
that of contempt : even in its most flattering aspect, what is it 
but plucking a few brilliant flowers from precipices, while the 
reward terminates in the honour?" — D' Israeli. — Author. 



m 3 



138 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

He mounts, well prefac'd by my Lord, 

Inflicts the spur's sharp wound ; 

Pegasus spurns the great man's word, 

And wont move from the ground. 

Now mark his face flush'd with disgrace, 

Through future life to grieve on, 
His wishes crost, his hopes all lost, 
He sinks into oblivion. 

Yon city scribbler thinks to scale 
The cliffs of fame with pastoral, 

In worth thinks none e'er richer; 
Yet never climb'd the upland steep, 
Nor e'er beheld a flock of sheep, 

Save those driven by the butcher ; 
Nor ever mark'd the gurgling stream, 

Except the common sewer, 
On rainy days, when dirt and slime 
Pour'd turbid past his door. 
Choice epithets in store he gets 

From Virgil, Shenstone, Pope, 
With tailor art tacks part to part, 
And makes his past'ral up. 

But see, rich clad in native worth, 
Yon Bard of Nature ventures forth, 

With simple modest tale; 
Applauding millions catch the song, 
The raptur'd rocks the notes prolong, 

And hand them to the gale ; 
Pegasus kneels — he takes his seat — 

Now see — aloft he tow'rs, 
To place him 'bove the reach of fate, 
In Fame's ambrosial bow'rs; 

To be enroll'd with bards of old? 

In ever-honour'd station : 
The gods, well-pleas'd, see mortals rais'd 
Worthy of their creation. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 139 

Now mark what crowds of hackney scribblers, 
Imitators, rhyming dabblers, 

Still follow in the rear ! 
Pegasus spurns us one by one, 
Yet still, fame-struck, we follow on, 

And tempt our fate severe : 
In many a dogg'rel epitaph, 

And short-lin'd. mournful ditty, 
Our " Ahs ! — Alases !" raise the laugh, 
Revert the tide of pity : 

Yet still we write in nature's spite, 

Our last piece aye the best ; 

Arraigning still, complaining still, 

The world for want of taste !* 

Observe yon poor deluded man, 
With thread-bare coat and visage wan, 

Ambitious of a name ; 
The nat'ral claims of meat and deeding, 
He reckons these not worth the heeding, 

But presses on for fame ! 
The public voice, touchstone of worth, 

Anonymous he tries, 
But draws the critic's vengeance forth — 
His fancied glory dies ; 
Neglected now, dejected now, 

He gives his spleen full scope ; 
In solitude he chews his cud, 
A downright misanthrope. 

Then, brother rhymsters, O beware ! 
Nor tempt unscar'd the specious snare, 



* " Still restless fancy drives us headlong on ; 
With dreams of wealth, and friends, and laurels won, 
On Ruin's brink we sleep, and wake undone." — AuTHOa. 



HO, WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Which self-love often weaves ; 
Nor doat, with a fond father's pains, 
Upon the offspring of your brains, 

For fancy oft deceives : 
To lighten life, a wee bit sang 

Is sure a sweet illusion ! 
But ne'er provoke the critic's stang, 
By premature intrusion : 
Lock up your piece, let fondness cease, 

Till mem'ry fail to bear it, 
With critic lore then read it o'er, 
Yourself may judge its merit. 



CONNEL AND FLORA: 

A SCOTTISH LEGEND. 

" The western sun shines o'er the loch> 
And gilds the mountain's brow ; 

But what are Nature's smiles to me, 
Without the smile of you ? 

" O will ye go t< Garnock side, 
Where birks and woodbines twine ! 

I've sought you oft to be my bride, 
When, when will ye be mine ?" 

" Oft as ye sought me for your bride, 
My mind spoke frae my e'e ; 

Then wherefore seek to win a heart, 
That is not mine to gi'e ?" 

u With Connel down the dusky dale. 
Long plighted are my vows : 

He won my heart before I wist 
I had a heart to lose." 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 141 



The fire flash'd from his eyes of wrath, 

Dark gloom'd his heavy brow, 
He grasp'd her in his arms of strength, 

And strain'd to lay her low. 

She wept and cried — the rocks replied— 

The echoes from their cell, 
On fairy wing, swift bore her voice 

To Connel of the dale. 

With vengeful haste he hied him up, 

But when stern Donald saw 
The youth approach, deep stung with guilt, 

He, shame-fac'd, fled awa\ 

" Ah ! stay, my Connel — sheath thy sword — 

do not him pursue ! 

For mighty are his arms of strength, 
And thou the fight may'st rue." 

" No ! — wait thou here — I'll soon return — 

1 mark'd him from the wood ! 
The lion heart of jealous love 

Burns for its rival's blood-!" 

*' HoJ stop thee, coward — villain vile ! 

With all thy boasted art, 
My sword's blade soon shall dim its shine, 

Within thy reynard heart !" 

" Ha ! foolish stripling, dost thou urge 

The deadly fight with me ? 
This arm strove hard in Flodden Field, 

Dost think 'twill shrink from thee !" 



142 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

" Thy frequent vaunts of Flodden Field 
Were ever fraught with guile ; 

For honour ever marks the brave, 
But thou'rt a villain vile !" 



Their broad blades glitter to the sun, 

The woods resound each clash, 
Young Connel sinks 'neath Donald's sword, 

With deep and deadly gash. 

** Ah ! dearest Flora, soon our morn 

Of love is overcast ! 
The hills look dim — Alas ! my love !" — 

He groan'd, and breath'd his last. 

" Stay, ruthless ruffian !— murderer ! 

Here glut thy savage wrath ! 
Be thou the baneful minister 

To join us low in death !" 

In wild despair she tore her hair, 

Sunk speechless by his side — 
Mild Evening wept in dewy tears, 

And, wrapt in night, she died. 

This attempt to engraft modern refinement upon ancient 
simplicity is, we humbly think, unsuccessful. — Ed. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 143 



THE COCK-PIT. 

The barbarous amusement of seeing two animals instinctively 
destroying each other, certainly affords sufficient scope for the 
pen of the satirist. The author thought he could not do it 
more effectually than by giving a picture of the Cock-pit, and 
describing a few of the characters who generally may be seeu 
at such glorious contests. — Author. 

" The great, th' important hour is come," 

O Hope ! thou wily nurse ! 
I see bad luck behind thy back, 

Dark brooding deep remorse. 

No fancied muse will I invoke, 

To grace my humble strain, 
But sing my song in homely phrase, 

Inspir'd by what I've seen. 

Here comes a feeder with his charge, 

'Mong friends 'tis whisper'd straight. 
How long he swung him on a string, 

To bring him to his weight. 

The carpet's laid — pit-money drawn — 

All's high with expectation ; 
With birds bereft of Nature's garb, 

The " handlers" take their station. 

What roaring, betting, bawling, swearing, 

Now assail the ear ! 
" Three pounds! — four pounds, on Philips' cock!" 

— Done! — Done, by G-d, Sir! — here. 

Now cast a serious eye around — 

Behold the motley group, 
All gamblers, swindlers, ragamuffins, 

Votaries of the stoup. 



144 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Here sits a wretch with meagre face, 

And sullen drowsy eye ; 
Nor speaks he much — last night, at cards, 

A gamester drain'd him dry. 

Here bawls another vent'rous soul, 

Who risks his every farthing ; 
What deil's the matter ! though at home 

His wife and brats are starving. 

See, here's a father 'gainst a son, 

A brother 'gainst a brother, 
Who, e'en with more than common spite. 

Bark hard at one another. 

But see yon fellow all in black, 

His looks speak inward joy ; 
Mad happy since his father's death, 

Sporting his legacy. 

And, mark — that aged debauchee, 

With red bepimpl'd face — 
He fain would bet a crown or two, 

But purse is not in case. 

But hark, that cry ! — " He's run ! he's run !"— 

And loud huzzas take place — 
Now mark what deep dejection sits 

On every loser's face. 

Observe the owner — frantic man, 

With imprecations dread, 
He grasps his vanquish'd idol-god, 

And twirls off his head. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 145 

But, bliss attend their feeling souls, 

Who no such deeds delight in! 
Brutes are but brutes, let men be men, 

Nor pleasure in cock-fighting. 

This little piece says much for the humane disposition 
of the author. We have been assured that it gives a very 
just description of what may be witnessed at such degrading 
exhibitions. — Ed. 



PROLOGUE 

TO 

'THE GENTLE SHEPHERD:" 

Spoken in a Provincial Theatre. 

Ye patronisers of our little party, 

My heart's e'en light to see you a' sae hearty, 

I'm fain indeed, and troth ! I've meikle cause, 

Since your blithe faces half insure applause. 

We come this night with nae new-fangl'd story, 

Of knave's deceit, or fop's vain blust'ring glory, 

Nor harlequin's wild pranks, with skin like leopard,- 

We're come to gie your ain auld Gentle Shepherd, 

Whilk aye will charm, and will be read, and acket, 

Till Time himseF turn auld, and kick the bucket. 

I mind, langsyne, when I was just a callan, 

That a' the kintra rang in praise o' Allan ; 

Ilk rising generation toots his fame, 

And, hun'er years to come, 'twill be the same : 

For wha has read, though e'er sae lang sinsyne, 

But keeps the living picture on his min' ; 

Approves bauld Patie's clever manly turn, 

And maist thinks Roger cheap o' Jenny's scorn ; 

His dowless gait, the cause of a' his care, 

For " nane, except the brave, deserve the fair." 



146 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

Hence sweet young Peggy lo'ed her manly Pate, 
And Jenny geck'd at Roger, dowf and blate. 

Our gude Sir William stands a lesson leal 
To lairds wha'd hae their vassals lo'e them weel ; 
To prince and peer, this maxim it imparts, 
Their greatest treasures are the people's hearts. 

Frae Glaud and Simon would we draw a moral, 
" The virtuous youth-time mak's the canty carl," 
The twa auld birkies caper blithe and bauld, 
Nor shaw the least regret that they're turri'd auld. 

Poor Bauldy ! O 'tis like to split my jaws ! 
I think I see him under Madge's claws : 
Sae may Misfortune tear him spawl and plack, 
Wha'd wrang a bonny lass, and syne draw back. 

But, Sirs, to you I maist forgat my mission ; 
I'm sent to beg a truce to criticism : 
We don't pretend to speak by square and rule, 
Like yon wise chaps bred up in Thespian school ; 
And to your wishes should we not succeed, 
Pray be sae kind as tak' the will for deed. 



THE CONTRAST: 

INSCRIBED TO JAMES SCADLOCK. — AUGUST, 1803. 

When Love proves false, and friends betray us, 
All nature seems a dismal chaos 

Of wretchedness and wo ; 
We stamp mankind a base ingrate, 
Half loathing life, we challenge fate 

To strike the tinal blow. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 147 

Then settled grief, with wild despair, 

Stares from our blood-shot eyes, 
Though oft we try to hide our care, 
And check our bursting sighs 
Still vexed, sae wretched, 

We seek some lonely wood. 
There sighing, and crying, 
We pour the briny flood. 

The contrast mark— what joys we find, 
With friends sincere and beauty kind, 

Congenial to our wishes ; 
Then life appears a summer's day, 
Adown Time's crystal stream we play, 
As sportive's little fishes. 
We see nought then but general good, 

Which warm pervades all nature ; 
Our hearts expand with gratitude 
Unto the great Creator. 

Then let's revere the virtuous fair, 
The friend whose truth is tried, 
For, without these, go where we please, 
We'll always find a void. 



ODE TO JEALOUSY. 

Mark what demon hither bends, 
Gnawing still his finger ends, 
Wrapt in contemplation deep, 
Wrathful, yet inclin'd to weep. 

Thy wizard gait, thy breath-check'd broken sigh, 
Thy burning cheeks, thy lips, black, wither'd, dry ; 
Thy side-thrown glance, with wild malignant eye, 
Betray thy foul intent, infernal Jealousy, 

n2 



148 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Hence, thou self-tormenting fiend, 
To thy spleen- dug cave descend ; 
Fancying wrongs that never were, 
Rend thy bosom, tear thy hair, 
Brood fell hate within thy den, 
Come not near the haunts of men. 

Let man be faithful to his brother man, 
Nor, guileful, still pervert kind Heaven's plan ; 
Then slavish fear, and mean distrust shall cease, 
And confidence confirm a lasting mental peace. 



THE TRXFLER'S SABBATH-DAY. 

Loud sounds the deep-mouthed parish bell, 

Religion kirkward hies, 
John lies in bed and counts each knell, 

And thinks 'tis time to rise. 

But, O how weak are man's resolves ! 

His projects ill to keep, 
John thrusts his nose beneath the clothes, 

And dozes o'er asleep. 

Now fairy fancy plays her freaks 

Upon his sleep-swell'd brain ; 
He dreams — he starts — he mutt'ring speaks, 

And waukens wi' a grane. 

He rubs his een — the clock strikes twelve— 

ImpelPd by hunger's gripe, 
One mighty effort backs resolve — 

He's up — at last he's up ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY, 149 

Hunger appeased, his cutty pipe 

Employs his time till Two, — 
And now he saunters through the house, 

And knows not what to do. 

He baits the trap — catches a mouse — 

He sports it round the floor ; 
He swims it in a water tub — 

Gets glorious fun till Four ! 

And now of cats, and mice, and rats, 

He tells a thousand tricks, 
Till even dulness tires himself, 

For hark — the clock strikes Six ! 

Now view him in his easy chair 

Recline his pond'rous head ; 
'Tis Eight — now Bessie rakes the fire, 

And John must go to bed ! 

Re-printed from the first edition. — Ed. 



ODE 

IN IMITATION OP PETER PINDAR, (DR WOLCOTT. ) 

The simile's a very useful thing ; 

This priests and poets needs must own ; 

For when the clock-work of their brains runs down, 
A simile winds up the mental spring. 

For instance, when a priest does scan 
The fall of man, 

And all its consequences dire, 
He makes him first a little sportive pig, 
So clean, so innocent, so trig, 

And then an aged sow, deep wallowing in the mire ! 
n3 



150 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Yes, sure the simile's a useful thing, 
Another instance I will bring. 
Thou'st seen a cork tost on the rain-swell'd stream, 
Now up, now down, now whirl* d round and round, 

Yet still 'twould swim, 
And all the torrent's fury could not drown't ; 
So have I seen a forward empty fop 
Tost in Wit's blanket, ridicul'd, et cetera ; 
Yet, after all the banter, off he'd hop, 
Quite confident in self-sufficiency. 

Ah ! had kind Heaven, 
For a defence, 
Allow'd me half the brazen confidence 
That she to many a cork-brain'd fool hath given ! 



THE PORTRAIT OF GUILT: 

IN IMITATION OF M. G. LEWIS. 

'Twas night, and the winds through the dark forest roar'd, 
From Heaven's wide cat'racts the torrents down pour'd, 

And blue lightnings flash'd on the eye ; 
Demoniac howlings were heard in the air, 
With groans of deep anguish, and shrieks of despair, 

And hoarse thunders growl'd through the sky. 

Pale, breathless, and trembling, the dark villain stood, 
His hands and his clothes all bespotted with blood, 

His eyes wild with terror did stare ; 
The earth yawn'd around him, and sulphurous blue, 
From the flame-boiling gaps, did expose to his view, 

A gibbet and skeleton bare. 

With horror he shrunk from a prospect so dread, 
The blast swung the clanking chains over his head. 
The rattling bones sung in the wind ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 151 

The lone bird of night from the abbey did cry, 
He look'd o'er his shoulder intending to fly, 
But a spectre stood ghastly behind. 

" Stop, deep hell-taught villain !" the ghost did exclaim, 
" With thy brother of guilt here to expiate thy crime, 

And atone for thy treacherous vow : 
'Tis here thou shalt hang to the vultures a prey, 
Till piece-meal they tear thee and bear thee away, 

And thy bones rot unburied below." 

Now closing all round him fierce demons did throng, 
In sounds all unholy they howl'd their death-song, 

And the vultures around them did scream ; 
Now clenching their claws in his fear-bristled hair, 
Loud yelling they bore him aloft in the air, 

And the murd'rer awoke — 'twas a dream. 



THE HAUNTET WUD : 

IN IMITATION OF JOHN BARBOUR. 

Quhy screim the crowis owr yonder wud, 
With loude and clamourynge dynne, 

Haf deifenynge the torrentis roar, 
Quhilk dashis owr yon linne ? 

Quhy straye the flokis far outowr, 

Alang the stanery lee, 
And wil nocht graze an ear the wud, 

Tiiof ryche the pasturis be ? 

And quhy dis oft the sheipherdis dog, 
Gif that ane lamikyne straye, 

Aye yamf and yowl besyde the wud, 
Nae farthir yn wil gaye ? 



152 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

" Marvil thee nocht at quhat thou sei'st," 

The tremblynge rusticke sayde, 
' For yn that feindis-hauntet wud, 

Hath guyltlesse blude been sched. 

" Thou seist far down yon buschye howe, 

An eldrin castil greye, 
With teth of tyme, and weir of wyndis, 

Fast mould'ryng yn decaye. 

" 'Twas thair the jealous Barronne livit, 

With Ladie Anne hys wyfe ; 
He fleichit her neath that wudis dark glume, 

And revit hyr ther of lyffe. 

" And eir hyr fayre bodye was founde, 

The flesch cam frae the bane, 
The snailis sat feistyng onne hyr cheikis, 

The spydiris velit hyr ein. 

" And evir syne nae beist nor byrde 

Will byde twa nichtis thair, 
For fearful yellis and screichis wylde 

Are heird throuch nicht sae dreir." 

"' The Hauntet Wud' is a bonnie little poem, considered 
as such, but far from being any thing like an imitation of 
John Barbour. . . . Tannahill had neither leisure, 
education, nor means, to qualify himself for the perusal of 
Barbour and other venerable makers, much less to imitate 
their productions. Yet, though he has been unsuccessful, 
we cannot help loving him for thus showing that he was ac- 
quainted with the name, if not with the language, of one of 
the oldest of our epic poets." So said a very competent 
judge and successful imitator of our ancient bards, the late 
William Motherwell, in an Essay on the Poets of Renfrew- 
shire, prefixed to the ' Harp of Renfrewshire,' p. xli. The 
Essay was published anonymously, and we now claim it for 
our friend. 

If Tannahill failed in the above attempt, it was not for 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 153 

the want of a liberal allowance of consonants, which (to use 
a figure of Sir Walter Scott's when writing of Chatterton) 
are " doubled like the sentinels of an endangered army." 
—Ed. 



ODE, 

written for, and read at the celebration of robert 
burns' birth-day, by the paisley burns' club, 1805, 

Once on a time, almighty Jove 
Invited all the minor gods above, 
To spend one day in social festive pleasure : 
His legal robes were laid aside, 
His crown, his sceptre, and his pride ; 
And, wing'd with joy, 
The hours did fly, 
The happiest ever Time did measure. 

Of love and social harmony they sung, 

Till heav'n's high golden arches echoing rung ; 

And as they quaff'd the nectar-flowing can, 

Their toast was, 
" Universal peace 'twixt man and man." 

Their godships' eyes beam'd gladness with the wish, 
And Mars half-redden'd with a guilty blush ; 
Jove swore he'd hurl each rascal to perdition, 
Who'd dare deface his works with wild ambition ; 
But pour'd encomiums on each patriot band, 
Who, hating conquest, guard their native land. 

Loud thundering plaudits shook the bright abodes, 
Till Merc'ry, solemn-voiced, assail'd their ears, 
Informing, that a stranger, all in tears, 
Weeping, implored an audience of the gods. 



154 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Jove, ever prone to succour the distrest, 
A swell redressive glow'd within his breast, 
He pitied much the stranger's sad condition, 
And ordered his immediate admission. 

The stranger enter'd, bow'd respect to all, 

Respectful silence reign 'd throughout the hall: 

His chequer'd robes excited their surprise, 

Richly transvers'd with various glowing dyes ; 

A target on his strong left arm he bore, 

Broad as the shield the mighty Fingal wore ; 

The glowing landscape on its centre shin'd, 

And massy thistles round the borders twin'd ; 

His brows were bound with yellow-blossom'd broom. 

Green birch and roses blending in perfume ; 

His eyes beam'd honour, though all red with grief, 

And thus heaven's King spake comfort to the chief : 

" My son, let speech unfold thy cause of wo, 

Say, why does melancholy cloud thy brow ? 

'Tis mine the wrongs of virtue to redress ; 

Speak, for 'tis mine to succour deep distress/' 

Then thus he spake : " King ! by thy command, 

I am the guardian of that far-fam'd land 

Nam'd Caledonia, great in arts and arms, 

And every worth that social fondness charms, 

With every virtue that the heart approves, 

Warm in their friendships, rapt'rous in their loves, 

Profusely generous, obstinately just, 

Inflexible as death their vows of trust : 

For independence (ires their noble minds, 

Scorning deceit, as gods do scorn the fiends. 

But what avail the virtues of the North, 

No patriot bard to celebrate their worth, 

No heav'n-taught minstrel, with the voice of song, 

To hymn their deeds, and make their names live long ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 155 

And ah ! should Luxury, with soft winning wiles, 

Spread her contagion o'er my subject isles, 

My hardy sons, no longer Valour's boast, 

Would sink despis'd, their wonted greatness lost. 

Forgive my wish, O King ! I speak with awe, 

Thy will is fate, thy word is sovereign law ! 

O ! would'st thou deign thy suppliant to regard, 

And grant my country one true patriot bard, 

My sons would glory in the blessing given, 

And virtuous deeds spring from the gift of Heaven I* 

To which the god : " My son, cease to deplore, 
Thy name in song shall sound the world all o'er ; 
Thy bard shall rise, full fraught with all the fire 
That Heav'n and free-born nature can inspire • 
Ye sacred Nine, your golden harps prepare, 
T' instruct the fav'rite of my special care, 
That whether the song be rais'd to war or love, 
His soul-wing'd strains may equal those above. 
Now, faithful to thy trust, from sorrow free, 
Go wait the issue of our high decree." — 
Speechless the Genius stood, in glad surprise, 
Adoring gratitude beam'd in his eyes ; 
The promis'd bard his soul with transport fills, 
And light with joy he sought his native hills. 

'Twas from regard to Wallace and his worth, 
Jove honour'd Coila with his birth ; 

And on that morn, 

When Burns was born, 

Each Muse with joy, 

Did hail the boy ; 
And Fame, on tiptoe, fain would blown her horn. 
But Fate forbade the blast, so premature, 
Till worth should sanction it beyond the critic's power. 
His merits proven — Fame her blast hath blown, 
Now Scotia's Bard o'er all the world is known — 



156 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

But trembling doubts here check my unpolished lays, 
What can they add to a whole world's praise ? 
Yet, while revolving time this day returns, 
Let Scotsmen glory in the name of Burns. 



ODE, 



WRITTEN FOR, AND PERFORMED AT THE CELEBRATION OF 
BURNS' BIRTH-DAY, BY THE PAISLEY burns' CLUB, 1807. 

RECITATIVE. 

While Gallia's chief, with cruel conquests vain, 

Bids clanging trumpets rend the skies, 

The widow's, orphan's, and the father's sighs, 

Breathe, hissing through the guilty strain ; 

Mild Pity hears the harrowing tones, 

Mix'd with shrieks and dying groans ; 

While warm Humanity, afar, 

Weeps o'er the ravages of war, 

And shudd'ring hears Ambition's servile train, 

Rejoicing o'er their thousands slain. 

But when the song to worth is given, 

The grateful anthem wings its way to heaven : 

Rings through the mansions of the bright abodes, 

And melts to ecstasy the list'ning gods : 

Apollo, on fire, 

Strikes with rapture the lyre, 
And the Muses the summons obey ; 

Joy wings the glad sound, 

To the worlds around, 
Till all nature re-echoes the lay.— 
Then raise the song, ye vocal few, 
Give the praise to merit due. 



1 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 157 

SONG. 

Set to music by Smith. 

Though dark scowling Winter, in dismal array, 

Remarshals his storms on the bleak hoary hill, 
With joy we assemble to hail the great day 

That gave birth to the Bard who ennobles our isle : 
Then loud to his merits the song let us raise, 
Let each true Caledonian exult in his praise ; 
For the glory of genius, its dearest reward, 
Is the laurel entwin'd by his country's regard. 

Let the Muse bring fresh honours his name to adorn, 

Let the voice of glad melody pride in the theme, 
For the genius of Scotia, in ages unborn, 

Will light up her torch at the blaze of his fame. 
When the dark mist of ages lies turbid between, 
Still his star of renown through the gloom shall be seen, 
And his rich blooming laurels, so dear to the Bard, 
Will be cherish'd for aye by his country's regard. 

RECITATIVE. 

Yes, Burns, " thou dear departed shade !" 
When rolling centuries have fled. 
Thy name shall still survive the wreck of time, 
Shall rouse the genius of thy native clime ; 
Bards yet unborn, and patriots shall come, 
And catch fresh ardour at thy hallow'd tomb ! 
There's not a cairn-built cottage on our hills, 

Nor rural hamlet on our fertile plains, 

But echoes to the magic of thy strains, 
While every heart with highest transport thrills. 
Our country's melodies shall perish never, 
For, Burns, thy songs shall live for ever. 

Then, once again, ye vocal few, 

Give the song to merit due. 
o 



158 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

SONG. 

Written to Marsh's national Air, "Britons, who for freedom bled. 

Harmonized as a glee by Smith. 

Hail, ye glorious sons of song, 

Who wrote to humanize the soul ! 
To you our highest strains belong, 

Your names shall crown our friendly bowl : 
But chiefly, Burns, above the rest, 
We dedicate this night to thee ; 
Engrav'd in every Scotsman's breast, 
Thy name, thy worth, shall ever be ! 

Fathers of our country's weal, 

Sternly virtuous, bold and free! 
Ye taught your sons to fight, yet feel 
The dictates of humanity : 
But chiefly, Burns, above the rest, 
We dedicate this night to thee ; 
Engrav'd in every Scotsman's breast, 
Thy name, thy worth, shall ever be ! 

Haughty Gallia threats our coast, 

We hear her vaunts with disregard, 
Secure in valour, still we boast 
"The Patriot, and the Patriot-bard." 
But chiefly, Burns, above the rest, 
We dedicate this night to thee ; 
Engraved in every Scotsman's breast, 
Thy name, thy worth, shall ever be ! 

Yes, Caledonians ! to our country true, 
Which Danes nor Romans never could subdue, 
Firmly resolv'd our native rights to guard, 
Let's toast " The Patriot, and the Patriot-bard," 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 15 ( J 

ODE, 

RECITED BY THE PRESIDENT AT THE CELEBRATION OF BURNS' 
BIRTH-DAY, BY THE PAISLEY BURNS' CLUB, 1810. 

Again the happy day returns, 
A day to Scotsmen ever dear ; 
Though bleakest of the changeful year, 
It blest us with a Burns. 

Fierce the whirling blast may blow, 
Drifting wide the crispy snow ; 
Rude the ruthless storms may sweep, 
Howling round our mountains steep, 
While the heavy lashing rains, 
Swell our rivers, drench our plains, 
And the angry ocean roars 
Round our broken, craggy shores ; 
But mindful of our poet's worth, 
We hail the honour'd day that gave him birth. 

Come, ye vot'ries of the lyre, 
Trim the torch of heav'nly fire, 
Raise the song in Scotia's praise, 
Sing anew her bonny braes, 
Sing her thousand siller streams, 
Bickering to the sunny beams; 
Sing her sons beyond compare, 
Sing her dochters, peerless, fair ; 
Sing, till winter's storms be o'er, 
The matchless bards that sung before ; 
And I, the meanest of the Muse's train, 
Shall join my feeble aid to swell the strain. 

Dear Scotia, though thy clime be cauld, 
Thy sons were ever brave and bauld, 
Thy dochters modest, kind, and leal, 
The fairest in creation's fiel'; 
o2 



160 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Alike inur'd to every toil, 

Thou'rt foremost in the battle broil ; 

Prepar'd alike in peace and weir, 

To guide the plough or wield the spear ; 

As the mountain torrent raves, 

Dashing through its rugged caves, 

So the Scottish legions pour 

Dreadful in th' avenging hour : 

But when Peace, with kind accord, 

Bids them sheath the sated sword, 

See them in their native vales, 

Jocund as the summer gales, 

Cheering labour all the day, 

With some merry roundelay. 

Dear Scotia, though thy nights be drear, 
When surly winter rules the year, 
Around thy cottage hearth are seen 
The glow of health, the cheerful mien ; 
The mutual glance that fondly shares, 
A neighbour's joys, a neighbour's cares : 
Here oft, while raves the wind and weet, 
The canty lads and lasses meet. 
Sae light of heart, sae full of glee, 
Their gaits sae artless and sae free, 
The hours of joy come dancing on, 
To share their frolick and their fun. 
Here many a song and jest goes round 
With tales of ghosts and rites profound, 
Perform'd in dreary wizard glen, 
By wrinkled hags and warlock men. 
Or of the helUfee'd crew combin'd 
Carousing on the midnight wind, 
On some infernal errand bent, 
While darkness shrouds their black intent, 
But chiefly, Burns, thy songs delight 
To charm the weary winter night, 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 161 



And bid the lingering moments flee, 

Without a care unless for thee, 

Wha sang sae sweet and dee't sae soon, 

And sought thy native sphere aboon. 

" Thy lovely Jean," thy " Nannie, 0," 

Thy much lov'd " Caledonia," 

Thy " Wat ye wha's in yonder town,'* 

Thy " Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon," 

Thy " Shepherdess on Afton Braes," 

Thy " Logan Lassie's" bitter waes, 

Are a' gane o'er sae sweetly turfd, 

That e'en the storm, pleased with the sound, 

Fa's lown and sings with eerie slight, 

" O let me in this ae night." 

Alas ! our best, our dearest Bard, 
How poor, how great was his reward ; 
Unaided he has fix'd his name, 
Immortal, in the rolls of fame ; 

Yet who can hear without a tear, 

What sorrows wrung his manly breast, 
To see his little helpless filial band, 
Imploring succour from a father's hand, 

And there no succour near ? 
Himself the while with sick'ning woes opprest, 

Fast hast'ning on to where the weary rest : — 
For this let Scotia's bitter tears atone, 
She reck'd not half his worth till he was eone. 



The above ode appeared in the Scots Magazine for 
February 1810, but has not till now been inserted in any 
edition of our author's works. It was with considerable 
reluctance that he complied with the request of the Club to 
compose this, his third effusion for one of their anniver- 
sary meetings. He thought it was tasking himself like the 
Poet-laureate of the time, to indite an annual ode for the 
King's birth-day. — Ed. 

o 3 



162 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 



WILL MACNEIL'S ELEGY. 

" He was a man without a clag ; 

His heart was frank without a flaw."* 

Responsive to the roaring floods, 

Ye winds, howl plaintive through the woods ; 

Thou gloomy sky, pour down hail clouds, 

His death to wail ; 
For bright as heaven's brightest studs, 

Shin'd Will MacNeil. 

He every selfish thought did scorn, 
His warm heart in his looks did burn, 
Ilk body own'd his kindly turn, 

And gait sae leal ; 
A kinder saul was never born 

Than Will MacNeil. 

He ne'er kept up a hidlin plack 
To spend ahint a comrade's back, 
But on the table gar'd it whack, 

Wi' free gude will : 
Free as the wind on winter stack, 

Was Will MacNeil. 

He ne'er could bide a narrow saul, 
To a' the social virtues caul' ; 
He wish'd ilk sic a fiery scaul', 

His shins to peel : 
Nane sic durst herd in field or fauP 

Wi' Will MacNeil 

* In the previous editions the name of " King Jamie the First" 
has been attached to the lines which form the motto ; but they 
are not to be found in any of the works of that monarch. They 
occur in the song of " Willie was a wanton wag, 1 ' a much later 
production, ascribed to William Walkinshaw, a member of the 
now extinct family of Walkinshaw of that ilk, near Paisley. — Ed. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 163 

He aye abhorr'd the spaniel art ; 

Aye when he spak' twas frae the heart ; 

An honest, open, manly part, 

He aye uphel' : 
" Guile should be davel'd i' the dirt," 

Said Will MacNeil. 

He ne'er had greed to gather gear, 
Yet rigid kept his credit clear ; 
He ever was to Misery dear, 

Her loss she'll feel : 
She aye got saxpence, or a tear, 

Frae Will MacNeil. 

In Scotch antiquities he pridet ; 

Auld Hardyknute, he kent wha made it ; 

The bagpipe too, he sometimes sey'd it ; 

Pibroch and reel : 
Our ain auld language few could read it, 

Like Will MacNeil. 

In wilyart glens he lik'd to stray, 
By foggie rocks, or castle grey ; 
Yet ghaist-rid rustics ne'er did say, 

"Uncanny chiel !" 
They filPd their horns wi' usquebae 

To Will MacNeil. 

He saiPd and trampet mony a mile, 

To visit auld I-columb-kill ; 

He clamb the heights o' Jura's isle, 

Wi' weary spiel ; 
But siccan sights aye pay'd the toil 

Wi' Will MacNeil. 

He rang'd through Morven's hills and glens, 
Saw some o' Ossian's moss-grown stanes, 



164 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

Where rest his low-laid heroes' banes, 

Deep in the hill ; 

He croon'd a c'ronach to their manes, — 

Kind Will MacNeil ! 

He was deep-read in nature's buik, 
Explor'd ilk dark mysterious cruik, 
Kend a' her laws wi' antrin luik, 

And that right weel ; 
But (fate o' genius) death soon tuik 

Aff Will MacNeil. 

Of ilka rock he kent the ore, 
He kend the virtues o' ilk flow'r, 
Ilk banefu' plant he kent its power 

And warn'd frae ill ; 
A' nature's warks few could explore 

Like Will MacNeil. 

He kend a' creatures, clute and tail, 
Down frae the lion to the snail, 
Up frae the mennoun to the whale, 

And kraken eel; 
Scarce ane could tell their gaits sae weel 

As Will MacNeil. 

Nor past he ought thing slightly by, 
But with keen scrutinizing eye, 
He to its inmaist bore would pry, 

Wi' wondrous skill; 
And teaching ithers aye gae joy 

To Will MacNeil. 

He kend auld Archimedes' gait, 
What way he burnt the Roman fleet, 
" 'Twas by the rays' reflected heat, 

" Frae speculum steel ; 
" For bare refraction ne'er could do't;" 

Said Will MacNeil. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 165 

Yet fame his praise did never rair it, 
For poortith's weeds obscur'd his merit, 
Forby, he had a bashfu' spirit, 

That sham'd to tell 
His worth or wants ; let envy spare it, 

To Will Mac Neil. 

Barra,* thou wast sair to blame ! 

1 here record it to thy shame, 
Thou luit the brightest o' thy name, 

Unheeded steal, 
Through murky life to his lang hame, — 

Poor Will MacNeil. 

He ne'er did wrang to living creature, 
For ill, Will hadna't in his nature ; 
A warm, kind heart his leading feature, 

His main-spring wheel ; 
Ilk virtue grew to noble stature 

In Will MacNeil. 

There's no a man that ever ken'd him, 
But wi' his tears will lang lament him ; 
He has na' left his match ahint him, 

At hame or 'fiel ; 
His worth lang on our minds will print him, — 

Kind Will MacNeil. 

But close, my sang ; my hamewart lays 
Are far unfit to speak his praise ; 
Our happy nights, our happy days, 

Fareweel, fareweel ! 
Now dowie, mute — tears speak our waes 

For Will MacNeil 



* MacNeil of Barra, the generally understood chief of the 
clan. — Ed. 



166 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 



THE CONTRARY. 

Get up, my Muse, and sound thy chanter, 
Nor langer wi' our feelings saunter ; 
Ilk true-blue Scot, get up and canter, 

He's hale and weel ! 
And lang may Fate keep aff mischanter 

Frae Will MacNeil. 

William MacNeil was a surgeon in Old Kilpatrick, and 
survived for some years the friend by whom his good quali- 
ties are here celebrated. — Ed. 



PRAYER, UNDER AFFLICTION. 

Almighty Power, who wing'st the storm, 

And calm'st the raging wind, 
Restore health to my wasted form, 

And tranquillize my mind. 

For, ah ! how poignant is the grief 
Which self-misconduct brings, 

When racking pains find no relief, 
And injur'd conscience stings. 

Let penitence forgiveness plead, 

Hear lenient mercy's claims, 
Thy justice let be satisfied, 

And blotted out my crimes. 

But should thy sacred law of right, 

Seek life a sacrifice, 
O ! haste that awful, solemn night, 

When death shall veil mine eyes. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 167 

THE FILIAL VOW. 

Why heaves my mother oft the deep-drawn sigh ? 

Why starts the big tear glist'ning in her eye? 

Why oft retire to hide her bursting grief? 

Why seeks she not, nor seems to wish relief? 

'Tis for my father, mould'ring with the dead, 

My brother, in bold manhood, lowly laid, 

And for the pains which age is doom'd to bear, 

She heaves the deep-drawn sigh, and drops the secret tear. 

Yes, partly these her gloomy thoughts employ, 

But mostly this o'erclouds her every joy ; 

She grieves to think she may be burdensome, 

Now feeble, old, and tott'ring to the tomb. 

hear me, Heaven ! and record my vow ; 
Its non-performance let thy wrath pursue ! 

1 swear — Of what thy providence may give, 
My mother shall her due maintenance have. 
'Twas hers to guide me through life's early day, 
To point out virtue's paths, and lead the way : 
Now, while her powers in frigid languor sleep, 
'Tis mine to hand her down life's rugged steep, 
With all her little weaknesses to bear, 
Attentive, kind, to soothe her every care. 

'Tis nature bids, and truest pleasure flows 
From lessening an aged parent's woes. 

For the circumstances under which this vow, so credit- 
able to the filial piety of the author, was written, see the 
Memoir. — Ed. 



168 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 



EILD: 

A FRAGMENT. 

The rough hail rattles through the trees, 
The sullen lift low'rs gloomy grey, 

The trav'ller sees the swelling storm, 
And seeks the ale-house by the way. 

But, waes me ! for yon widow'd wretch, 
Borne down with years and heavy care, 

Her sapless fingers scarce can nip 
The wither'd twigs to beet her fire. 

Thus youth and vigour fends itsel', 

Its help, reciprocal, is sure, 
While dowless Eild, in poortith cauld, 

Is lonely left to stand the stoure. 



STANZAS, 

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL ON THE GRAVE-STONE OF A DEPARTED 
FRIEND. 

Stop, passenger — here muse a while — 
Think on his darksome lone abode, 

Who late, like thee, did jocund smile, 
But now lies 'neath this cold green sod. 

Art thou to vicious ways inclin'd, 

Pursuing Pleasure's flow'ry road ? 
Know — fell Remorse shall rack thy mind, 

When tott'ring to thy cold green sod. 

If thou a friend to virtue art, 

Oft pitying burden'd mis'ry's load ; 

Like thee, he had a feeling heart, 
Who lies beneath this cold green sod. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 169 

With studious philosophic eye, 

He look'd through nature up to God ; 

His future hope his greatest joy, 

Who lies beneath this cold green sod. 

Go, passenger — revere this truth ; 

A life well spent in doing good, 
Soothes joyless age, and sprightly youth, 

When drooping o'er the cold green sod. 



ON ALEXANDER WILSON'S EMIGRATION TO 
AMERICA. 

O death ! it's no thy deeds I mourn, 
Though oft my heart-strings thou hast torn ; 
'Tis worth and merit left forlorn, 

Life's ills to dree, 
Gars now the pearly, brackish burn 

Gush frae my e'e. 

Is there who feels the melting glow 
Of sympathy for ithers' wo ? 
Come, let our tears thegither flow ; 

O join my mane ! 
For Wilson, worthiest of us a', 

For aye is gane. 

He bravely strove 'gainst fortune's stream, 
While hope held forth ae distant gleam ; 
Till dash'd and dash'd, time after time, 

On life's rough sea, 
He wept his native thankless clime, 

And sail'd away. 

The patriot bauld, the social brither, 
In him were sweetly join'd thegither ; 
p 



170 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 



He knaves reprov'd without a swither, 

In keenest satire, 

And taught what mankind owe each ither 
As sons of nature. 

If thou hast heard his wee bit wren 
Wail forth its sorrows through the glen, 
Tell how his warm, descriptive pen 

Has thrill'd thy saul : 
His sensibility sae keen, 

He felt for all. 

Since now he's gane, and Burns is dead, 
Ah ! wha will tune the Scottish reed ? 
Her thistle, dowie, hangs its head ; 

Her harp's unstrung ; 
While mountain, river, loch and mead, 

Remain unsung. 

Fareweel, thou much neglected bard ! 
These lines will speak my warm regard, 
While strangers on a foreign sward 

Thy worth hold dear ; 
Still some kind heart thy name shall guard 

Unsullied here. 

Alexander Wilson was born in Paisley in 1766, where 
he followed the trade of a weaver, and acquired consider- 
able celebrity for his poetical productions. As a graphic 
description of low life, his ' Watty and Meg' has rarely 
been equalled. 

Wilson emigrated to the United States in 1794, and 
died at Philadelphia in 1813, the victim of intense appli- 
cation to the study of the natural history of the birds of 
that country. His great work on American Ornithology 
— the fruit of ten years spent in unparalleled activity, ro- 
mantic adventure, and daring research — forms an imperish- 
able monument to the memory of this extraordinary man. 
-Ed. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 171 

THE POOR BOWLMAN'S REMONSTRANCE. 

Through winter's cold and summer's heat, 

1 earn my scanty fare ; 
From morn till night, along the street, 

I cry my earthen ware : 
Then, O let pity sway your souls ! 

And mock not that decrepitude, 

Which draws me from my solitude, 
To cry my plates and bowls ! 

From thoughtless youth I often brook 

The trick and taunt of scorn, 
And though indiff'rence marks my look, 

My heart with grief is torn : 
Then, O let pity sway your souls ! 

Nor sneer contempt in passing by; 

Nor mock, derisive, while I cry, 
• Come, buy my plates and bowls.' 

The potter moulds the passive clay 

To all the forms you see : 
And that same Pow'r that formed you, 

Hath likewise fashion'd me. 
Then, O let pity sway your souls ! 

Though needy, poor as poor can be, 

I stoop not to your charity, 
But cry my plates and bowls. 

When decrepitude incapacitates a brother of humanity 
from gaining a subsistence by any of the less dishonourable 
callings, and when he possesses that independence of soul 
which disdains living on charity, it is certainly a refinement 
in barbarity to hurt the feelings of such a one. The above 
was written on seeing the boys plaguing little Johnnie the 
Bowlman, while some, who thought themselves men, were 
reckoning it excellent sport. — Author. 

Another proof of the humane disposition of Tannahill. 
--Ed. 

r2 



172 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

SONNET TO SINCERITY. 

Pure emanation of the honest soul, 

Dear to my heart, manly Sincerity ! 
Dissimulation shrinks, a coward foul, 

Before thy noble art-detesting eye. 

Thou scorn'st the wretch who acts a double part, 
Obsequious, servile, flatt'ring to betray ; 

With smiling face that veils a ranc'rous heart, 
Like sunny morning of tempestuous day. 

Thou spurn'st the sophist, with his guilty lore, 

Whom int'rest prompts to weave the specious snare ; 

In independence rich, thou own'st a store 

Of conscious worth, which changelings never share. 

Then come, bright virtue, with thy dauntless brow, 
And crush deceit, vile monster, reptile-low. 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON READING " THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.' , 

How seldom 'tis the Poet's happy lot, 
T' inspire his readers with the fire he wrote ; 
To strike those chords that wake the latent thrill, 
And wind the willing passions to his will : 
Yes, Campbell, sure that happy lot is thine, 
With fit expression, rich from Nature's mine, 
Like old Timotheus, skilful plac'd on high, 
To rouse revenge, or soothe to sympathy. 
Blest Bard ! who chose no paltry, local theme, — 
Kind Hope through wide creation is the same ; 
Yes, Afric's sons shall one day burst their chains, 
Will read thy lines, and bless thee for thy pains ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 173 

Fame yet shall waft thy name to India's shore, 
Where next to Brahma they thee will adore ; 
And hist'ry's page, exulting in thy praise, 
Will proudly hand thee down to future days — 
Detraction foil'd, reluctant quits her grip, 
And carping Envy silent bites her lip. 



LINES, 

WRITTEN ON SEEING A SPIDER DART OUT UPON A FLY. 

Let gang your grip, ye auld grim devil ! 

Else with ae crush I'll mak' you civil : 

Like debtor-bard in merchant's claw, 

The fient o' mercy ye've at a' ! 

Sae spite and malice (hard to ken 'em,) 

Sit spewing out their secret venom : — 

Ah, hear ! — poor buzzard's roaring murder : 

Let gang !— Na faith ! — Thou scorn 'st my order ! — 

Weel, tak' thou that ! — vile ruthless creature ! 

For who but hates a savage nature ? — 

Sic fate to ilk unsocial kebar, 

Who lays a snare to wrang his neighbour. 



LINES, 

ON SEEING A FOP PASS AN OLD BEGGAR. 

He who, unmov'd, can hear the suppliant cry 

Of pallid wretch, plac'd on the pathway side. 
Nor deigns one pitying look, but passes by 

In all the pomp of self-adoring pride — 
So may some great man vex his little soul, 

When he, obsequious, makes his lowest bow ; 
Turn from him with a look that says, " Vain fool," 

And speak to some poor man whom he would shame to 
know. 

p3 



1 74 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 

PARODY ON ' LULLABY.' 

WRITTEN ON SEEING THE LATE MR THOMAS WILLOUGHBY, 
TRAGEDIAN, RATHER BELOW HIMSELF. 

Peaceful, slumb'ring in the ale-house, 

See the godlike Rolla lie ; 
Drink outwits the best of fellows : 

Here lies poor Tom Willoughby. 

Where is stern king Richard's fury ? 

Where is Osmond's blood-flush'd eye? 
See these mighty men before ye, 

Sunk to poor Tom Willoughby. 

Pity 'tis that men of merit, 

Thus such sterling worth destroy : 
O ye gods ! did I inherit 

Half the pow'rs of Willoughby. 

This piece appeared in the author's edition, but it has 
hitherto been omitted in the posthumous ones. — Ed. 



LINES 



ON A FLATTERER. 



I hate a flatt'rer as I hate the devil, 

But Tom's a very, very pleasant dog ; 
Of course let's speak of him in terms more civil— 

I hate a flatt'rer as I hate a hog : 
Not but applause is music to mine ears, 

He is a knave who says he likes it not, 
But when in Friendship's guise Deceit appears, 

'Twould fret a Stoic's frigid temper hot. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 175 



A RESOLVE. 

WRITTEN ON HEARING A FELLOW TELL SOME STORIES TO TRF 
HURT OF HIS BEST FRIENDS. 

As secret's the grave be the man whom I trust ; 

What friendship imparts still let honour conceal : 
A plague on those babblers, their names be accurs'd I 

Still first to inquire, and the first to reveal. 
As open as day let me be with the man 

Who tells me my failings from motives upright ; 
But when of those gossiping fools I meet one, 

Let me fold in my soul, and be close as the night. 



LINES 

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL IN A TAP- ROOM. 

This warld's a tap-room owre and owre, 

Whare ilk ane tak's his caper ; 
Some taste the sweet, some drink the sour, 

As waiter Fate sees proper. 
Let mankind live, ae social core, 

And drap a* selfish quarr'lling, 
And when the Landlord ca's his score, 

May ilk ane's clink be sterling. 



A LESSON. 

Quoth gobbin Tom of Lancashire, 
To northern Jock, a lowland drover, 

" Those are foin kaise thai'rt driving there, 
" They've zure been fed on English clover/' 



176 WORKS OF TANNAH1LL. 

" Foin kaise !" quoth Jock, "ye bleth'ring hash, 
" Deil draw your nose as lang's a sow's ! 

" That tauk o' yours is queer-like trash, 
" Foin kaise ! poor gowk ! — their names are KOOSEJ* 

The very fault which I in others see, 

Like kind, or worse, perhaps is seen in me. 



EPIGRAMS. 

Cried Dick to Bob, " Great news to-day !" 

" Great news," quoth Bob, " what great news, pray f* 

Said Dick, " Our gallant tars at sea, 

" Have gain'd a brilliant victory.'' 

" Indeed !" cried Bob, " it may be true, 

" But that, you know, is nothing new." 



* French threats of invasion let Britons defy, 
" And spike the proud frogs if our coast they should 
crawl on." 

Yes, statesmen know well that our spirits are high, 
The financier has rais'd them two shillings per gallon. 



Nature, impartial in her ends, 

When she made man the strongest, 

For scrimpet pith, to mak' amends, 
Made woman's tongue the longest. 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 177 

EPITAPHS. 

ON SEEING A ONCE WORTHY CHARACTER LYING INEBRIATED ON 
THE STREET. 

If loss of worth may draw the pitying tear, 

Stop, passenger, and pay that tribute here — 

Here lies whom all with justice did commend, 

The rich man's pattern, and the poor man's friend ; 

He cheer'd pale Indigence's bleak abode, 

He oft remov'd Misfortune's galling load ; 

Nor was his bounty to one sect confin'd, 

His goodness beam'd alike on all mankind : 

Now, lost in folly, all his virtues sleep — 

Let's mind his former worth, and o'er his frailties weep. 



FOR T. B. ESQ.* 

A GENTLEMAN WHOM INDIGENCE NEVER SOLICITED IN VAIN. 

Ever green be the sod o'er kind Tom of the Wood, 

For the poor man he ever supplied ; 
We may weel say, alas ! for our ain scant of grace, 

That we reck'd not his worth till he died : 
Though no rich marble bust mimics grief o'er his dust, 

Yet fond memory his virtues will save ; 
Oft, at lone twilight hour, sad Remembrance shall pour 

Her sorrows, unfeign'd, o'er his grave. 

* This benevolent individual still survives. The allusion in the 
first line is to Ferguslie-wood, which is elsewhere celebrated as 
a favourite haunt of the author's. — Ed. 



178 WORKS OF TANNAHILL. 



ON A CRABBED OLD MAID. 

Here slaethorn Mary's hurcheon bouk, 

Resigns its fretful bristles : 
And is she dead ? No — reader, look, 

Her grave's o'ergrown wi' thistles. 



ON A FARTHING GATHERER. 

Here lies Jamie Wight, wha was wealthy and proud, 
Few shar'd his regard, and far fewer his goud ; 
He liv'd unesteem'd, and he died unlamented, 
The Kirk gat his gear, and auld Jamie is sainted ! 



i 
GLOSSARY. 


The ch and gh have generally the guttural sound. The sound of the 


English diphthong oo is commonly spelled ou. The French u, a sound 


which often occurs in the Scottish language, is marked oo, or ui, and 


sometimes (as in gude) u only. The a, in genuine Scottish words, 


except when forming a diphthong, or followed by an e mute after a 


single consonant, sounds generally like the broad English a in wall. 


The Scottish diphthongs ae, always, and ea, very often, sound like the 


French e masculine. The Scottish dipthong ey, sounds like the Latin ex. 


With regard to words which have more meanings than one, we have, in 


general, thought it necessary to give only those meanings in which they 


are employed by the author. 


A 


Auld-farren, sagacious. 




Ava, at all. 




Awa, away. 


A', all. 

A' my lane, all alone. 


Ayont, beyond. 


Abeigh, aloof, at a shy distance. 


B / 


Aboon, above. 


Abreed, abroad. 




Ae, one. 


Bairn, a child. 


Aff, off. 


Baith, both. / 


Aft, oft. 


Bane, bone.' ^f 


Afore, before. 


Banq^ to b^ftT 


j Ahint, behind. 


Baudrons, puss, a cat. 


Aiblins, perhaps. 


Bauld, bold ; bauldly, boldly. 


Ain, own. 


Bedeen, quickly, forthwith. 


Airt. point of the compass ; to 


Beet, belt, to add fuel to the 


direct. 


fire. 


Alane, alone. 


Ben, towards the inner apart- 


Alang, along. 


ment ; far ben, far inwards. 


Amaist, almost. 


Beuk, buik, a book. 


Amang, among. 


Bicker, a wooden bowl or dish ! 


Ance, once. 


for holding liquor. 


Ane, one, an. 


Bide, to abide, remain. 


Anither, another. 


Bield, beild, shelter, protection. 


Antrin, occasional. 


Birk, birch ; birken, birchen. 


Arle, to give an earnest. 


Birkie, a lively fellow. 


Auld, old. 

! 


Birsie, bristly. 



180 GLOSSARY. 


Blackboyd, the bramble-berry. 


Castock, the core or pith of a 


Blae, livid. 


stalk of colewort or cabbage. 


Blaeberry, the bilberry. 


Caul\ cauld, cold. 


Blate, bashful, sheepish. 


Chaft, chafts, the chops. 


Bland, a large piece of any 


Chanter, a part of a bagpipe ; 


thing. 


" to sound a chanter/' to 


Blaw, a blast, to blow ; to 


sound a pipe. 


" tak' a blaw," to take a whiff 


Chield, a fellow, used either in 


of tobacco. 


a good or bad sense. 


Blearie, bleared. 


Chirt, to squeeze. 


Bleezing, blazing. 


Chuckie-bird, a chicken. 


Blether, to talk idly. 


Claise, clothes. 


Bluid, blood. 


deeding, clothing. 


Boatie, diminutive of boat. 


Cleuk, cluik, a cloak. 


Bonnie, handsome, beautiful. 


Clink, money ; a cant term. 


Bore, a small hole or crevice. 


Clung, empty. 


Bouk, bulk. 


Clute, cloot, a hoof. 


Bour-tree, the common elder- 


Coft, did buy. 


tree. 


Coggie, diminutive of cog, a 


Bouroch, a chamber. 


wooden dish. 


Brae, a hill. 


Coof, a blockhead. 


Braid, broad. 


Coots, the ancles. 


Braw, fine, handsome. 


Coronach, a dirge. 


Breckan, fern. 


Cosie, cozie, snug, well-shel- 


Brither, brother. 


tered. 


Broo, broth, soup. 


Couldna, could not. 


Broose, a race on horseback at 


Couthy, kind, loving. 


country weddings. 


Crabbit, crabbed. 


Bughted glade, a winding glade. 


Craig, a rock ; the throat. 


Buirdly, strong, athletic. 


Craigie, diminutive of craig, a 


Burn, a rivulet ; Burnie, dimi- 


rock. 


nutive of burn. 


Cranreuch, hoarfrost. 


Busk, to dress finely. 


Crawberry, the crowberry. 




Crawflower, the crowflower. 


c 


Crispy, hard and brittle, like 


frozen snow. 




Croodle, to coo as a dove. 


Ca\ a call ; to call. 


Crooket, crooked. 


Caft, did buy. 


Croon, to purr as a cat, to hum 


Cairny, covered with loose 


a tune. 


heaps of stones, called cairns. 


Crowdie, food of the porridge 


Callan, a boy. 


kind in general. 


Caller, cool, refreshing. 


CruiJi, a crook ; to crook. 


Canker t, cross, ill-natured. 


Cuddle, to fondle. 


Ca,nna\ cannot. 


Cuist, did cast. 


Canty, cheerful, merry. 


Cushat, the wood-pigeon. 


Carle, an old man. 


Cutty pipe, a short tobaceo 


Carline, an old woman. 


pipe. 



GLOSSARY. 



181 



D 

Daffiri, merriment, foolishness. 

Darna, dare not. 

Davel, to let fall, to drive. 

Dee, to die. 

Defy devil. 

Descrive, to describe. 

Diddle, to shake, to jog. 

Didna, did not. 

Dizzen, a dozen. 

Dochter, daughter. 

DoiVd, doilt, stupid, confused. 

Dolefu\ doleful. 

Dorty, saucy, nice, discontent- 
ed. 

Doubtna, doubt not. 

Douf, pithless, wanting spirit. 

Downa, do not. 

Douring, remaining obstinately. 

Dow, to be able, to thrive ; also 
dove. 

Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, 
&c. 

Dowless, spiritless, incompe- 
tent. 

Dozen, to stupify. 

Draff, brewers' dregs ; draff- 
cheap, worthless. 

Draigle, to bespatter, as with 
mire. 

Dredgy, the funeral service ; 
also the compotation that 
takes place after the funeral. 

Dreep, to drop. 

Drouth, drought, thirst. 



E 

E'e, the eye ; e'en, the eyes. 
Evening, the evening. 
Eerie, flighted, dreading spi- 
rits. 
Eident, diligent. 
Eild, old age. 



IV fall, lot ; to fall. 

Fae, foe. 

Fa!en, fallen. 

Fallow, fellow. 

Farm-toun, farm-house. 

Fash, trouble, care ; to trouble. 

Faught, a fight, a struggle; 
did fight, 

Fauld, a fold ; to fold. 

Fause, false. 

Feberwar, February. 

Fecht, a fight ; to fight. 

Feck, many, plenty. 

Feckless, weak in body, spirit- 
less. 

Fee, wages, to hire. 

Fen\fend, the shift one makes ; 
to shift, to support, to fare in 
general. 

Fettle, to join closely, to re- 
pair. 

Fient, fiend, (a petty oath.) 

Flate, preterite of Jlyte, to scold. 

Fleech, to wheedle. 

Fleuk, a flounder. 

Flisk, to skip, to caper. 

Flunkie, a livery servant. 

Forby, besides. 

For/aim, distressed, worn out, 
jaded. 

Fou, fu\ full, drunk. 

Fouth, plenty, enough. 

Frae, from. 

Fur thy, frank, affable. 

Fyke, trifling cares ; to be in a 
fuss about trifles. 



G 

Gab, the mouth. 
Gae, to go. 
Gait, a way, a street. 
Gang, to go, to walk. 
Q 



182 GLOSSARY. 


Ganger, a goer. 


boiled in the stomach of a 


Gar, to force, Jo compel. 


cow or sheep 


Gaun, going. 


Ha ill, whole. 


Gaucy, plump, jolly. 


I/din, to spare, to save. 


Gawkie, half-witted, foolish. 


Ha me, home. 


Geur y riches, goods of any kind. 


Hash, a sloven, a foolish fellow. 


Geek, to deride. 


llawdin, holding, goods. 


Gettlin, a child. 


Heather, heath 


Ghaist, a ghost. 


Hecht, offered, 


Gin, if, against. 


Hee, heigh, hie, high. 


Girn, to grin. 


Hidlin, Secret. 


Glamour, magical deception of 


Hilch, to hobble, to halt. 


sight. Hence to cast glamour 


Hijt, to hop. 


o'er ane, to cause deception 


Holm, the level low ground cm 


of si^ht. 


the banks of a river. 


Gloamin, the twilight 


Huwdie, a mid* 


Gowan, the generic name for 


Howe, a hollow. 


the daisy, ^in^ly, it denotes 


Howk, to dig. 


the mountain daisy : gowany, 


Howlet, an owl. 


abounding with dairies. 


Hubble, hobble, hobble, a hubbub, 


Gowd, gold ; gowden, golden. 


a riot, a state of perplexity. 


Gowk, the cuckoo; also, a 


Hun'er, a hundred. 


fool. 


Hurcheon, a hedgehog. 


Graff, a grave. 


Hurkle, to squat, to draw the 


Grane, a groan ; to groan. 


body together. 


Grannie, grandmother. 




Greet, to weep. 




Grew, a greyhound. 


I 


Grip, a grasp ; to grasp. 




Groats, milled oats. 


/', in. 

Ill-faufd, ill favoured. 

Ilk, ilka, each, every. 


Giun , ground. 

Gude, guid, good ; also used 
for the name of God. 


Gudeman, a husband. 


Ingle, fire, fire-place. 


Gude wife, a wife. 

Gunk, to gVe the, to give the 


Inmaist, inmost. 
I'se, I shall or will. 
Ither. other, one another 


slip, to jilt. 




Gutcher, (corruption of gude- 




sire) a grandfather. 


J 


H 


Jink, to turn suddenly. 




Jirgum, to jerk as with a fiddle- 


Ha\ hall. 


bow, (a cant word. ) 


Haffet, the temple, the side of 


Joe, a sweetheart. 


the head. 


Jorum jirger, a player of tunes 


Haggis, a kind of pudding 


on the fiddle, (a cant word. ) 



<n ■ 

GLOSSARY. 183 


Jouk, to bend, to turn sud- 


Leeze-me ! fleif-is-me ! J dear is 


denly. 


to me ; a phrase of self-gratu- 




lation. 


K 


Leuch, leugh, did laugh. 


Licht, a light; (adject.) light; 




(verb,) to light. 


Kebar, fcabbar,J a rapacious 


Lift, the sky. 


person. 


Lilt, a ballad, a tune ; to sing. 


Ken, to know. 


Lingel, shoemaker's thread. 


Kennin, acquaintance, a small 


Linn, a cataract ; the pool 


portion, a slight degree. 


under a cataract. 


Kimmer, a gossip. 


Lintie, a linnet. 


Kintra, country. 


Loe, to love. 


Kirk, a church. 


Loof, (plural, looves,) the palm 


Kirkward, churchward. 


of the hand. 


Kirk-yard, a church-yard. . 


Loup, a leap ; to leap. 


Knowe, a small round hillock. 


Lowe, a flame ; to burn. 


Kyte, the belly. 


Luik, a look ; to look 




Lug, the ear. 




Luggie, a small wooden dish 


L 


with a handle. 


Luit, loot, did let. 


Lobster, a lobster. 
Laddie, a boy; a fondling term 
applied to a young man. 


Lum, a chimney ; lum-pig, a 

chimney can. 
Lyart, of a mixed colour, grey. 


Ladin\ a load. 




Laigh, low. 


M 


Lair, to stick in the mire. 




Laird, a landholder. 


Mae, or mair, more. 


Laith, loath. 


Mailing, a farm. 


Lan\ land. 


Maist, most; maistly, mostly. 


Lane, lone, alone ; lanely, 


Mane, moan ; to moan. 


lonely. 


Maun, must. 


Lang, long. 


Maun na\ must not. 


Lang-kail, coleworts not shorn. 


Mavis, a thrush. 


Langsome, tedious, longsome. 


Maw, to mow. 


Lapstane, the stone a shoe- 


Maybe, perhaps. 


maker holds on his knee or 


Meikle, much. 


lap to beat leather upon. 


Mennoun, a minnow. 


Lave, the rest, the ethers. 


Messan, a small dog. 


Laverock, a lark. 


Minnie, mother. 


Lawin, a reckoning. 


Mirk, dark. 


Lea, pasture ground. 


Mirly '-breasted, speckled on the 


Lea\ to leave. 


breast. 


Leal, loyal, true, faithful. 


Mischanter, mishanter, misfor- 


Lear, learning. 


tune. 


Lee-lang, live-long. 


Mither, mother. 




Q2 



184 



GLOSSARY. 



Mizzly, mizzled, having differ- 
ent colours. 
Mole-ee't, mole-eyed. 
Mony, many. 
Mool, to crumble. 
Mou\ the mouth. 
MucJde, much. 
Munonday, Monday. 



N 

Na, no, not, nor. 

Nae, no, not, any. 

Naething, nothing. 

Nane, none. 

Nappy, ale. 

Neb, the nose, used ludicrously. 

Ne'er-do-weel, one whose con- 
duct gives reason to think 
that he will never do well; a 
scapegrace. 

Neist, next. 

Neuk, nook, corner. 

Nocht, nothing. 

Norland, belonging to the 
North. 

o 

0', of. 

Ony, any. 

Ourie, shivering, drooping 
Owre, over, too. 
Out-owre, over. 



Pairtrick, paitrick, a partridge. 

Pawky, cunning, sly. 

Pease strae, pease-straw. 

Pibrocharian, a player of pi- 
brocks, or Highland airs, (a 
cant word.) 

Plack, a small copper coin for- 
merly current in Scotland, 



equal to the third of a penny 
sterling. 

Plaid, an outer loose garment 
of striped and variegated 
cloth ; plaidie, diminutive of 
plaid, a fondling term. 

Planting, a wood. 

Poortith, poverty. 

Pouther, powder. 

Pow, the head. 

Pu\ to pull. 

Pund, a pound. 

Q 

Quaigh, a small and shallow 

drinking cup with two ears. 
Quat, to quit, to desist. 

R 

Rae, a roe. 

Rair, to roar, to proclaim. 
Rant, to make merry. 
Ranting merry, cheerful, jovial. 
Reave, to-deprive. 
Red-wat-shod, walking in blood 

over the shoe-tops. 
Reestle, a blow, to beat. 
Rin, to run. 

Risp, to make a harsh sound. 
Roguie, diminutive of rogue. 
Roose, to praise, to commend. 
Roun\ round. 
Row, to roll, to wrap* 
Runkled, wrinkled. 
Runt, the stem of colewort or 

cabbage. 



Sae, so. 
Saft, soft. 
Sair, sore. 
Sang, a song. 
Sape, soap. 
Sark, a shirt. 



GLOSSARY. 



185 



Sauce, sauciness. 

Saugh, the willow. 

Saul, the soul. 

Saw, to sow. 

Sax, six. 

Scart, to scratch. 

Scaud, ScauV, a scald; to 

scald. 
Scauld, to scold. 
Screed, to tear; screed off, to 

do any thing quickly. 
Scrimpit, scanty, deficient. 
Scroggie, thorny, briery. 
Senile, to pour from one vessel 

to another ; to cook. 
Sey, to essay, to try. 
Shantrews, a dance. 
Shaw, a small wood in a hollow 

place. 
Shieling, a hut, or shed. 
Shortsyne, a short time since, 

lately. 
Shouther, shoulder. 
Sic, such. 

Siccan, such kind of. 
Sich, to sigh. 

Sidelins, sidelong, indirectly. 
Siller, silver, money, 
Simmer, summer. 
Sin\ since. 
Skellat, a small bell. 
Skelp, a stroke ; to strike, to 

slap, to walk with a smart 

tripping step. 
Skiff, to blow over. 
Skinkle, to sparkle. 
Sklent, slant, to look askance. 
Slae, a sloe. 
Slee, sly. 

Slocken, to quench. 
Sma\ small. 
Snaw, snow. 
Snool, to submit tamely. 
Sodger, a soldier. 
Sonsy, good-humoured, plump, 

well-conditioned. 
Soop, to sweep. 



Sough, sugh, a rushing ot 
whistling sound. 

Souple, supple 

Souter, a shoemaker. 

Southron, an old name for an 
Englishman. 

Sowdie, or powsowdie, sheep's- 
head broth : milk and meal 
boiled together. 

Spankie, moving with quick- 
ness and elasticity. 

Spawl, a limb. 

Speat, or spate, a sweeping tor- 
rent after rain or thaw. 

Spiel, to climb. 

Spier, to ask, to inquire. 

Spunkie, the will o' the wisp, 
or ignis fatuus. 

Sta\ did steal. 

Stane, a stone. 

Starn, a star. 

Stey, steep. 

Stirk, a bullock or heifer be- 
tween one and two years old. 

Stour, dust, more particularly 
dust in motion ; battle, hard- 
ship, perilous situation. 

Strae, straw. 

Strand, a gutter. 

Streek, to stretch. 

Swither, irresolution in choice; 
to hesitate in choice. 

Syne, since,, ago, then. 



Tae, toe. 
Taerit, taken it. 
Taigle, to detain. 
Tak\ to take. 
Tane, the one. 
Tap, top. 
Tauld, told. 

Tauted, or tautie, matted 
spoken of hair or wooL 



186 GLOSSARY. 


Thaek, to thatch. 


Waff, shabby, worthless ; to 


Thegitker, together. 


throw into the shade ; to 


Thir, these. 


excel. 


Thocht, or thought, a moment 


Wair, to lay out as expense. 


as respecting time, a small 


Wallop, a quick motion with 


quantity. 


much agitation of the clothes, 


Thole, to suffer, to endure. 


as in dancing. 


Thrawart, froward, perverse. 


Wame, the belly. 


Thrum, to purr as a cat. 


Warh, work. 


Timmer, timber; to toom the 


Warld, world. 


timmer, to empty the (wood- 


Warlock, a wizard. 


en) drinking cup. 


Warsel, to wrestle, to strive. 


Tine, or tyne, to lose; tint, lost. 


Warst, worst. 


Tither, the other. 


Wat, wet ; / wat, I wot. 


Tocher, a marriage portion. 


Waukrife, wakeful, not apt to 


Toom, empty ; to empty. 


sleep. 


Tryst, an appointment to 


Waur, worse. 


meet; to make such an ap- 


Wean, a child. 


pointment, to engage. 


Wearifu\ causing pain or trou- 


Tuik, took. 


ble. 


Tiva, two. 


Wee, little. 


TwaV, twelve. 


Weel, well. 




WeeVs me I (weel is me I ) hap- 


u 


py am I. 


Weel-hain'd, well-saved. 




Weir, war. 


Unco, very, very great, strange, 


Westland, western. 


unknown, unusual. 


Wha, who. 


Upo\ upon. 


Whare, where. 


Uppermaist, uppermost. 


Whiles, sometimes. 


Usquebae, whisky. 


Whilk, which. 




Wifie, diminutive of wife. 


V 


Wilyart, wild, shy, timid. 




Wimple, to meander. 


Vera, very. 
Vogie, vain. 


Win', wind. 


Winna, will not. 


Wizen, (English, weasand) the 




throat. 


w 


Wyse, to wyse awa\ to whee- 




dle, to entice. 


Wa\ a wall. 




Wad, would ; to bet ; a pledge. 




Wadna, would not. 


Y 


Wae, wo; (adject.) sorrowful. 


Waeful, woful. 




Wae's me ! waesucks ! wo is 


Ye, a pronoun frequently used 


me ! alas ! 


for thou. 



GLOSSARY. 



187 



Year, is used both for singular 

and plural. 
Yeldrin, a yellow-hammer. 
Yestreen, yesternight. 
Yett, a gate. 



Fill, ale. 
Yird, earth. 
Yocket, yocked. 
Yont, beyond. 
Yowl, to howL 



THE END, 



EDINBURGH \ 
FULLARTON AND MACNAB, PRINTERS, LEITH WALK. 



